


To Give a Marionette Life

by orphan_account



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Ian, Fluff and Angst, I lied there is the angst here, Ian is sassy af, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Protective Siblings, Slow Burn, There is all the angst here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:10:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4452482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ian Gallagher loses the family phone, he doesn't really expect he'll get it--or a text he sent to it--back. But he's only partially right, because though the guy on the other end may be an asshole, he always texts back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stirring of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> There's probably a bazillion of these already written but I had to write another one because I thought it would be hilarious and cute to watch Mickey thaw through texts. It's going to be multi-chap, and Ian's going to be bipolar later down the road, so there'll be some angst. But lots of fluff too because they deserve fluff :')  
> Warnings: Explicit sexual content (later), attempted rape of an mc, physical abuse, drug use, alcoholism, heavy use of the word fuck, mental illness, suicide mentions (may add more as I go along)

When Ian lost the family phone, Fiona was _pissed_. She yelled at him for a good solid ten minutes with no breath in between before she finally ended with, “And you’d better save up enough to buy another phone, Ian Gallagher, because that’s the only one we have and we need it for emergencies.” Ian hung his head, shamefaced, and spent the rest of the night trying to come up with an idea to make enough money to buy another phone. When he tried bouncing ideas off Lip, his older brother laughed his head off and told him it was up to him to appease Fiona. Which was true, because if Lip got involved there was no doubt Fiona would get mad at him too.

All the cash Ian made at the store went to helping pay the bills, so that was out. Lip wouldn’t give him a loan because he was saving up for Karen’s birthday present, so that was out too. Carl and Debbie… well, he couldn’t ask them for the scant pennies they made. So that left two options. Either he asked Kash to borrow some money, or he asked some other guy. At the moment, he and Kash were on the rocks because Lip had just found out and was threatening to call the cops if they stayed together, so Ian’s best bet was probably another guy. One Lip didn’t know. Ian fell asleep with a grim determination on his face and a brilliant plan cooking in his mind.

***

Okay, so it wasn’t _that_ brilliant. He went to a gay bar and started fucking an older, richer guy. Then he told the guy they should have some form of communication and he was poor, so the guy bought him a phone and paid for a plan. Problem solved, right? But no, it definitely wasn’t. If Fiona found out he was more or less selling his body for a phone plan, she’d freak. And Lip would freak. And they’d lose the phone. They just didn’t get the fact that Ian wasn’t a kid anymore—he honestly liked screwing older guys, and the guy who’d bought him the phone was nice to him. He liked him. He liked the dirty texts he got periodically. But Fiona wouldn’t.

Of course, that was only the first part of his plan. The second part was to text whoever had their normal phone and get it back somehow. He knew it hadn’t been disconnected because he’d called it from a payphone and his family’s voice had chirped back at him to leave a message. So. Hopefully someone decent had found it.

He picked a park bench that was relatively quiet with good service to send the first text. He didn’t want Fiona knowing he had a phone just yet—she’d want to borrow it and she’d get one of his boyfriend’s dirty texts.

His fingers hovered over the keys of his new Blackberry as he hesitated, feeling like, for some reason, this was a momentous moment in his life. No, that was ridiculous. It was just a text. He probably wouldn’t even get an answer, and the only way it would be momentous would be because Fiona grounded him for life.

 

**If you’ve found my phone, could you please let me know? I’m willing to offer an award if you bring it back.**

He made a face at his message. It was polite. It was to the point. It definitely wasn’t him, and if he got a text like that, he knew he’d never respond. He frowned, erasing it before typing quickly again.

_Sent at 2:54 pm_

_To: Family Phone_

**Hi, my name is Ian and I’m shit poor. I won’t lie and say I can give you money for the phone back, but if you decide to bring it back out of the goodness of your heart, you’ll have my eternal gratitude. If you decide to keep it, which you probably will, you’re an asshole. Have a great day, man :)**

He smiled a little at the message and, before he could change his mind, he sent it. He’d probably lost the phone somewhere in South Side anyway, and there was no one nice in South Side. He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes, planning only to rest for a moment, but when he woke up it was already dark. He let out a low curse as he stood up, taking a joint from his jacket and lighting it as he started home, checking his messages before he fessed up to Fiona.

 

_Received at 3:42 pm_

_From: Rick With the Big Dick_

**Hey beautiful. You up for a little fun? Same hotel as last time if you’re interested.**

**-RM**

 

So Rick wanted to see him again. He tapped the phone against his upper lip as he debated one last night of freedom before Fiona and Lip cracked down on him about screwing older guys. He was just about to take the road to the hotel when his phone went off again.

 

_Received at 9:47 pm_

_From: Family Phone_

**fuck you. i’m not an asshole. who leaves their phone lying around in south side?**

 

Ian blinked in astonishment at the message on his screen. The person who had his phone had actually replied! Success! Well… partially. From the sound of it, they weren’t planning to give it back anytime soon. Unless he could change their mind.

 

_Sent at 9:49 pm_

_To: Family Phone_

**I was having a long day. I’m guessing this means you don’t feel like giving the phone back?**

_Received at 9:50 pm_

_From: Family Phone_

**no fucking way. and i don’t give a shit about your day. fuck off.**

Ian sighed. This person definitely wasn’t a ‘give the phone back out of the goodness of his heart’ kind of guy. He was just an asshole. Although, he had taken time to answer Ian back, so maybe that meant something. Maybe he was a little guilty? Ian didn’t know much about psychology—only about a couple major mental illnesses like Monica’s bipolar disorder—but he figured it may be worth a shot waiting out a guy who felt a little guilty.

With that decided, he chose the path of not telling Fiona anything just yet. If he could get the old phone back, it would be a win-win situation; she wouldn’t ground him and he could continue his relationship with Rick. Speaking of Rick… he jammed the phone into his jean pocket and took off at a run to the hotel. With luck, Rick would still be waiting for him and they could have a little fun.

***

 

The next day was the day of a big test, and it honestly went shitty. How was he ever supposed to get into a good school if his grades were such crap? To take his mind off of things, he went back to the park he’d been in the night before and went for a run. It always felt good to feel the power of the hundreds of drills he’d put his body through release itself through running. When he’d run himself tired, he dropped onto a bench and lit up another joint, staring up at the sky. He’d have to go home tonight or Fiona would be seriously pissed. He was also kind of hungry and the weed wasn’t doing much to help him.

In the sort of relaxed haze of the marijuana he took out his phone and changed some of his contact names to funnier ones. When he got to ‘Family Phone,’ a small smile grew across his face and he changed that one too. Then he typed up a quick message and sent it with no regrets.

 

_Sent at 10:09 pm_

_To: Asshole_

**Day was shit, thanks for asking.**

He put his phone away and finished his joint lazily, still stalling the inevitable. He wasn’t really expecting ‘Asshole’ to text him back, so when his phone went off and he saw that on his screen instead of Rick’s number, he actually dropped his joint.

 

_Received at 10:12 pm_

_From: Asshole_

**i don’t give a flying fuck**

_Sent at 10:15 pm_

_To: Asshole_

**I fucked up this test, right? And of course, even though it was only one test, it was worth nearly half of my grade. So, because of one bad day, my whole life’s probably ruined. That’s the school system for you. It’s shit.**

_Received at 10:17 pm_

_From: Asshole_

**shut up**

_Sent at 10:19 pm_

_To: Asshole_

**Also, since I lost my phone, when I get home I’m going to be completely fucked because that was the only phone our family of six kids had, and now people won’t be able to contact us during an emergency.**

_Received at 10:20 pm_

_From: Asshole_

**stop texting me**

_Sent at 10:23 pm_

_To: Asshole_

**So, really, dude, thank you _so_ much for keeping our only means of communication. I’m so glad we won’t be able to hear about our bipolar mother being locked away or our alcoholic father dying in a ditch somewhere because I lost our family phone.**

_Received at 10:25 pm_

_From: Asshole_

**you’re fucking welcome**

 

Ian smirked, shaking his head. Even though the guy was crude and foul-mouthed, at least he knew the difference between your and you’re. And he was still answering, so that was good for now. He left their conversation there and got up to go home. There was going to be a reckoning with Fiona.

***

He was right; Fiona yelled at him when he told her he still hadn’t gotten a phone, but she’d quieted a little when he told her he’d called it and someone had it.

“Well, is he planning on givin’ it back?” she demanded, to which Ian nodded vigorously as if he actually knew and fully believed that the guy was telling the truth about giving it back. When she’d asked when, he had only said, “Soon,” to which she’d shaken her head and went to bed, tired of him being cryptic. He went to bed himself, pausing only to type out a quick message and read the answer with a grin before falling asleep.

 

_Sent at 1:11 am_

_To: Asshole_

**I told my sister you were giving the phone back because you’re a good upstanding citizen.**

_Received at 1:12 am_

_From: Asshole_

**are you literally brain dead?**

***

_Sent at 9:04 am_

_To: Asshole_

**Morning, sunshine.**

_Received at 9:07 am_

_From: Asshole_

**i swear to fuck i’ll block you**

 

Ian wondered why he—he supposed he shouldn’t be assuming it was a he, but it was hard to think of him as anything else—hadn’t blocked him already. Oh well. As long as he kept responding, Ian would keep fucking with him until he maybe gave the phone back, though it didn’t seem like he was making any progress yet.

***

_Sent at 12:23 pm_

_To: Asshole_

**Are you a boy or a girl?**

_Received at 1:31 pm_

_From: Asshole_

**do i sound like a girl to you, dipshit?**

_Sent at 1:37 pm_

_To: Asshole_

**It’s Ian, actually. How about you? What’s your name, man?**

_Received at 1:39 pm_

_From: Asshole_

**why the fuck would I tell you, dipshit?**

_Sent at 1:42 pm_

_To: Asshole_

**So I can change your contact information from ‘Asshole’ to something a little nicer.**

_Received at 1:45 pm_

_From: Asshole_

**how about you change it to go fuck yourself**

_Sent at 1:48 pm_

_To: Go Fuck Yourself_

**I like you, Go Fuck Yourself. We should be friends.**

_Received at 1:50 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**i’d rather take a sword up the ass then be friends with you**

_Sent at 1:55 pm_

_To: Go Fuck Yourself_

**Sounds like fun.**

_Received at 2:00 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**why don’t take your fun**

_Received at 2:01 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**AND SHOVE IT UP YOUR ASS**

***

Ian was having way more fun that he’d thought he would fucking with the guy on the other side of the phone. It was probably some thirteen year old kid with nothing better to do but hate on random people, but his responses were kind of hilarious so Ian couldn’t bring himself to delete the number. In the meantime, he’d decided maybe he could try to make some extra cash on the side somehow. As he sat cross-legged in the grass thinking about it, Lip peered over his shoulder at his phone with a raised eyebrow.

“Is that our new phone? A Blackberry? Sweet.”

Ian blinked in alarm and hid the phone, bolting up and taking a step back while Lip held up both hands in an ‘I’m not going to do anything’ gesture. “No. It’s… it’s a friend’s. He’s letting me borrow it while I find out some kind of way to make money to buy a new one.”

Lip nodded, but Ian could tell he didn’t believe the lie. That he probably wouldn’t have believed anything but the truth, because he knew Ian too well. Ian sighed, preparing to tell Lip the truth and just be done with it all, when Lip’s eyes lit up and a grin grew across his face.

“Is this friend of yours rich? And does he have a family?”

Ian nodded, avoiding Lip’s eyes. Had he already figured it out? But Lip’s grin didn’t fade as he held out his hand.

“I know how you can make money. Gimme that.”

There were things on the phone Ian really didn’t want Lip to see, but if his brother had an idea, he really had no choice. He hesitated before handing Lip the phone. Lip’s fingers flew and his eyes were like hummingbird wings as he typed something out before handing the phone back to Ian with a wink. “You can thank me later,” he said with a grin, lighting up a joint as he walked away, leaving Ian standing there with his mouth hanging open at what Lip had just written.

 

_Sent at 2:43 pm_

_To: All Contacts_

**Hi. I know it may seem like I was doing well a short time ago, but right now I’m up to my neck in trouble. My family was just in an accident and I’ve… well, I haven’t been the best with my gambling addiction lately. I know I may not have been a good person to you—you probably feel like you don’t know anything about me—but I need your help. Please. I’m begging you. To save the people I love, please give me anything you have to spare. I just… I need help.**

Below that was an account you could wire money to if you had enough to help. It was completely stupid, and yet it was also completely brilliant. Rich idiots would fall into it like a honey trap for flies. But… Ian only had two contacts on the phone. Rick and—

His phone went off in his pocket and he answered it, his heart hammering in his chest for some reason, wondering if it was the guy who had his phone. But no. “Ian, is this true? Do you really need money?”

Ian sighed as the concerned voice of his sort-of boyfriend (more like manfriend) bleated out into his ear. Even Rick’s voice was well manicured, and it sometimes annoyed Ian. Yeah, he liked to be treated nice, of course he did, but he wasn’t some fucking lady friend for a guy to call up and buy jewelry for. Sometimes he wanted a rough fuck and the taste of ash in his mouth after a long day, and that just wasn’t Rick. But he sucked it up and made a decision.

“Yeah, I guess so. Only a couple hundred if you can spare it.”

“Of course! I’ll wire you a thousand.”

Ian nodded into the phone with a muttered thanks and hung up, wondering how much Lip would be asking for—his ideas always came with a price if they worked out. But that was okay, because when they didn’t, Lip took the consequences of the mistake onto his own shoulders. Speaking of taking the consequences…

 

_Sent at 2:51 pm_

_To: Go Fuck Yourself_

**Sorry, my brother was trying to make some quick cash. No need to worry, man—because I know you definitely must’ve been.**

_Received at 2:57 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**if you need cash just fucking ask. i’ll wire you some**

_Sent at 3:00 pm_

_To: Go Fuck Yourself_

**Wow, that’s a surprising turn of events. But I honestly don’t need any.**

_Received at 3:01 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**you sure about that?**

_Sent at 3:05 pm_

_To: Go Fuck Yourself_

**Yeah. I mean, it’s nice of you to offer but I guess I’d feel guilty taking your money based on a lie.**

_Received at 3:07 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**i stole your phone and you’d feel guilty**

_Sent at 3:10 pm_

_To: Go Fuck Yourself_

**Yeah. I don’t want to ruin what we have by making it about money B)**

_Received at 3:12 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**you know i was lying about sending you money to see what kind of person you are**

_Sent at 3:14 pm_

_To: Go Fuck Yourself_

**I’m kind of flattered you’re interested, to be honest. ;) So what do you think of me?**

_Received at 3:17 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**south side kids would take the money. you’re a fucking dipshit pussy bitch who**

**can’t fend for himself.**

_Sent at 3:20 pm_

_To: Go Fuck Yourself_

**I can take care of myself.**

_Received at 3:25 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**right. you and the homeless guy outside my house who was stabbed the other day.**

_Sent at 3:27 pm_

_To: Go Fuck Yourself_

**Aw, are you worried about me, man?**

_Received at 3:30 pm_

_From: Go Fuck Yourself_

**eat shit and die**

 

Ian was shaking his head with a smirk, preparing to text back “Love you too” when Rick called for a second time.

“Can we meet?” were the first breathless words out of his mouth. Ian closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face. Rick was becoming way too high maintenance lately. But saying no after accepting a thousand bucks would be a pretty shitty thing to do, wouldn’t it?

“Yeah.”

If he would’ve known what was coming, he would’ve dumped Rick right there and broke the phone against the ground.


	2. Commence Disintegration

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chap contains attempted rape and violence
> 
> oh, and the word fuck a lot. 39 fucking times to be precise :D

Although he’d never admit it, the texts Mickey was getting from the witty guy whose phone he’d stolen amused him. In his life, people had always reared against his violence and aggression with their own violence and aggression, so someone taking it so good naturedly made him curious. How far could he push before this guy got aggressive too? The answer to that seemed like it would come after every text, but it never did. So he was amused. And fucking annoyed, because the texts always came at the worst times and some stupid niggling feeling of guilt made him respond.

He drummed his fingers against his stomach impatiently as he waited for the guy to text him how his day had gone. He just wanted to get the text, respond, and go to sleep. Getting a text while you were fucking sleeping was the worst, and Mickey had the feeling Phone Guy wasn’t one of those people who was all that conscientious of a person’s sleep cycle. So he waited. He waited forty minutes until the clock was ticking its way towards two in the morning, and then his eyes slipped closed.

Of course he had to be almost asleep when his phone finally buzzed. But the buzzing was different than a text… the fuck? Was this guy seriously calling him at two in the morning? Mickey snatched the phone, his lips curling up in a snarl with the ‘fuck yous’ already prepared on his tongue, but his anger faded almost immediately as it had come when he saw the name ‘Monica.’ Who the fuck was Monica? Phone Guy’s girlfriend?

He didn’t pick it up, but a minute later the phone informed him he had a voice mail. He brushed his hands over his face with a grunt of irritation. Listen or not? It wasn’t like Phone Guy was getting the phone back, so Mickey supposed he should probably listen just in case it was something important Phone Guy needed to know right now. He fiddled with some keys and brought the phone to his ear as his mouth stretched in a yawn.

 

_Uh… is this thing… oh, uh, hi babies! It’s Mom. Frank just called me and told me everything! I can’t believe anyone would do something like that to my precious baby Ian. I know you’re all probably needing me right now, so I’ve made arrangements to come see you in a week. I hope you can hold out until then, my strong, loving kids! I love you! Oh, and could say hi to the neighbourhood for me? I mean, it’s been a while and—_

The rambling, quick-talking message cut off, probably because it was too long. Mickey pulled the phone from his ear with a frown, sitting up and blearily rubbing his eyes. Ian… Ian… Ian! That was Phone Guys name! Wow his mom really didn’t seem to give a shit if she was planning to show up in a week during a family emergency or whatever. Phone Guy had mentioned something about her being bipolar—Mickey didn’t know much about it, only that it was some serious mental disorder that felt in no way connected to his life—so maybe that was why she seemed so flaky. Whatever. But back to what she’d said…

 _Don’t tell me the pansy ass fucker really did get himself messed up and taken advantage of,_ Mickey thought darkly, laying back and staring into the swirling darkness of the night. Phone Guy _had_ seemed slightly naïve, and naivety was a terrible thing to have around here, so maybe he really did end up like the homeless guy. Mickey turned over on his side with a restless growl in the back of his throat. What was the point in worrying? It was just another South Side scumbag (he hadn’t been that bad) getting killed. It wasn’t like it was anything to worry over. Unless Phone Guy was murdered and the cops found his phone on Mickey. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

 

_Sent at 2:03 am_

_To: Pansy Ass Phone Guy_

**wake me up with a text and i’ll cut your fucking fingers off**

_Message failed to send. The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service._

 

Mickey stared at the writing on his screen until it went blurry, his blood going cold. No. Fucking. Way. Phone Guy was dead? What happened? Had he been shanked? Kidnapped and sold into slavery? Capped by a gang member? Mickey pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes with a loud groan. He didn’t need this shit. How had he gotten in so deep already?

***

9 HOURS EARLIER—

 

“Rick?” Ian called, letting himself into the lavish hotel room the older man rented out each time he met with Ian. He slipped his shoes off, his socks, riddled with holes, padding on the thick, creamy white carpet. Then he stopped and stared blankly at his socks for a second. They looked so dirty and out of place against this richness. How could housekeepers keep clean a carpet that hundreds of different feet walked on every day, yet he couldn’t even keep a pair of his own socks clean? He felt the sudden urge to either take off his socks or leave. He didn’t belong here. He was trash and this trash can was too fucking golden for him to—

“Ian?” Rick called from deeper inside the room, and Ian blinked out of his reverie with a small, sheepish smile. What was he doing? Standing here and spacing out about a stupid pair of socks? Ha, ridiculous.

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Ian replied, jogging out to the room he and Rick spent the majority of their time in when they saw each other. It was a huge room with walls the colour of burnished gold and a carpet a richer red than even Ian’s hair. The couches were easily comfy enough to pass for beds, with the warmest fur blankets that’d ever touched freckled Gallagher skin thrown over them with a careful laziness. But all that—even the HD electronics—was nothing compared to the breathtaking view of North Side.

Someday, Ian thought he might like to live there. Get a nice husband, couple of kids, a military job that didn’t have many postings, and settle down. Live normally, the way people did on TV. Not rich, but well off enough to pay for his kid’s education and not have to make them worry the way Frank made his family worry. And hey, since he could even help support Fiona the way she’d supported him through all the years. Yeah… his throat ached with a sudden desire for normality. Someday, he’d have it.

“You’re coming alright,” Rick murmured in Ian’s ear, sliding up behind him and wrapping large arms around Ian’s waist. Ian shook himself out of his head again and turned to face Rick. The man’s eyes were rimmed red with the familiar tinge of alcoholic bleariness.

“Are you drunk?” Ian asked, his skin suddenly crawling at the feel of Rick’s boozy breath on his face and the weathered hands clutching lecherously at his waist. Rick smelled like a fucking brewery, and it was too much like Frank for Ian not to feel disgusted. He tried to twist out of Rick’s grip but the older man held him tight, grinning.

“What’s wrong, baby? Trying to play hard to get?” the drunkard slurred, laughing.

Ian stopped struggling and leveled a glare at Rick, a surge of anger making his muscles instinctively tense for a fight.

“I’m not in the mood right now. Can we just lie down together or something?” Ian kept his voice light, not allowing his anger to colour it. It wasn’t Rick’s fault he hated alcoholics; it was Frank’s. Rick didn’t know because they usually did more physical stuff than talking, so Ian couldn’t just blow up at him.

“Why not? My wife just left me and I’m in the mood. Your day couldn’t have been much worse, could it?” Oh shit. That was why Rick was drinking and acting so forceful. Ian let out a long mental sigh before leaning down to hug Rick, comfort him. But Rick was more interested in taking comfort than receiving, apparently, because he shoved Ian back, hard, until Ian’s back hit the large window overlooking the city and made the glass tremble. Then he leaned up and pressed a mouth full of the battery acid taste against Ian’s, his hand fumbling with the top of Ian’s jeans.

“Fuck, stop! I said no!” Ian yelled, but one of Rick’s large hands captured both of Ian’s wrists and he slammed them against the window violently enough that Ian felt his bones creak. Ian was too shocked to do anything for a second while the I-take-what-I-want old fuck bit at Ian’s neck hard and sloppy, leaving red marks and the wet sheen of his kisses. Ian’s brain could barely process what was going on. He’d explicitly said no, and Rick was just going to take what he wanted?

“I paid you a thousand bucks, you little shit, so quit your goddamn whining. Tonight _I’ll_ be the one pounding into _you_ if you don’t mind. Actually, I honestly don’t care if you do. It’ll be better for you if you listen, but if you don’t I can still have my fun.”

Rick’s words slithered across Ian’s mind and body like a slug, leaving trails of filth that made Ian want to scrub himself until his blood ran and washed away the dirtiness. It took until Rick had stripped Ian’s pants and was working on his boxers before Ian finally realized it was really happening. Then he started actually struggling.

He twisted his arms, and tried to bring a knee up into Rick’s crotch, but the old businessman had apparently anticipated this because he used his knees to pry Ian’s apart, trapping him from moving his legs. What the fuck, had he done this before? The thought made Ian see red and he twisted his head, his teeth sinking into the closest flesh he could find; the meaty part of Rick’s biceps. Rick swore loudly and removed his hand from Ian’s underwear long enough to grab Ian by the top of his hair and slam his head into the window. Again, and again, and again until Ian’s vision swam and he saw a streak of red as he twisted his head.

His hands fell limp at his momentary stunning, and Rick took the opportunity to flip him around and shove his face into the window hard, smearing the blood from the back of his head onto his face. He tasted the metallic copper tang as he felt Rick press up against him, too impatient to even remove his own clothes, rough as he thrust a bit and Ian’s face smacked the window abruptly, making him swoon.

“STOP! SOMEONE FUCKING HELP ME!” Ian screamed, then realized there was one way to help himself. He thrust his whole body back as hard as he could, and his theory was right; Rick was too drunk to stand up against the full weight of his body.

They fell backwards together, and Rick grabbed Ian’s arm to try to steady himself, wrenching it so hard Ian felt bones pop. He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw more blood, then turned enough to wrap his fingers around Rick’s wrist and press on a pressure point that made fingers lose feeling. With that, he finally managed to free himself and he sprang away, turning around as Rick tried to struggle back up.

Watching the old man who’d almost raped him try to struggle drunkenly to his feet did something bad to Ian’s mind. An ice-cold wall of fury swept all other emotions away, and the world seemed to come into crisp, clear focus. Ian’s training pinpointed all vulnerable spots on his enemy and he stepped forward, drawing a foot back and letting it fly. Kick the hypochondrium. Grab the wrist, twist till he’s on his feet. Elbow to the solar plexus, then bring it down to the groin. Knee to the face, break the fucker’s nose. Two fingers in the soft spot above the collar bone, twist till he’s bent, pull his shoulder up, SNAP.

His enemy was screaming, babbling incoherently as Ian hurt him with a ruthless proficiency. And when he was done all that, and his enemy was on the ground weeping for mercy, Ian straddled him, pulled his fist back, and let it fall. Again and again and again until flecks of blood were coating his face, his enemy’s screams had faded to moans had faded to quiet, and the feeling under his fist was more spongy than hard. His enemy was unrecognizable. Good.

He stood up, turned, picked up his jeans, slid them back on. Then he drew in a long deep breath, ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, allowing himself to feel for a second. Fear, guilt, and a very deep, very dark sense of excitement. He opened his eyes, took the phone his enemy’d bought him out of his pocket, and turned, whipping it as hard as he could at the window. It shattered, the expensive little mechanisms within it spilling out all over the carpet. There were a lot of broken things in here now. Three to be precise. The phone, his enemy and…

His eyes shifted up to the window, where the smear of his blood tinted the view of North Side. He swallowed thickly, feeling a horror rise behind his eyes and a scream build in the back of his throat. That was his future. That fucking window was his future and now… He calmed himself once more. Zen fucking master. Cool as a cucumber. Get it together, Gallagher. Go home.

 

And so he took the winding staircase down, and no one saw until he hit the bottom floor.

***

“Oh good, you’re back. I got that money some guy wired in today and I got three new phones. One for the family and one each for me and you. I think that’s fair, considering—holy fuck.”

Lip cut off in midsentence when Ian accidentally stepped into a wavering beam of moonlight filtering through their window. This had been one confrontation he’d been wanting to avoid, because he knew how much Lip hated him screwing anyone over five years older. Of course, Lip’s ‘holy fuck’ statement was so loud it woke Carl, who let out a holler that woke the entire house, “IAN’S BLEEDING!”

Fiona, who was hypersensitive to the word ‘bleeding,’ immediately ran into the room in a shimmery nightgown Jimmy had bought for her. Followed by Jimmy himself, then Debbie, then Frank, who’d apparently decided to sleep there tonight. Lights were turned on and Ian was dragged to the kitchen before he could get a word in edgewise. Debbie got him water, Lip got him painkillers, Carl grabbed the first aid kit, and Fiona started tending to his worst wounds (the sticky back of his head and a huge gouge inside his cheek) while Jimmy handed her whatever she asked for. If there was one good thing about his family, it was that they took care of each other through thick and thin. Even when the three oldest in the room save Frank were burning with anger, whether towards him or who hit him he didn’t know. When the whole process was finished, Fiona leaned forward to ask him quietly, “Everyone conversation or just me and Lip?”

Ian dropped his gaze, unable to meet hers as he raised two fingers to say the latter option. Fiona nodded and turned to the rest of the crew. “Everyone out. Now. And yes, Jimmy, that includes you.” Jimmy’s look of protest dropped when he saw how serious Fiona’s glare was, and he took everyone out so Lip, Fiona, and Ian could talk.

“You haven’t said a word through this whole thing, so I’m bettin’ it’s a hell of a lot worse than it looks, isn’t it?” Fiona asked, harsh but not unkindly. Ian, who’d spaced out through the whole thing, finally looked her in the eyes. It very nearly broke him, looking at the tiredness and concern there. He couldn’t lay his pain on her, she had way too much to deal with herself. Lip was the same; he had college to worry about, so Ian couldn’t get him involved in this either.

“Yeah. I’m just tired. Got into a fight with a friend and it turned pretty bad,” Ian murmured, bringing one hand up to wrap around the arm he was pretty sure was broken. Lip and Fiona exchanged a glance before Lip winced a little, his eyes beyond worry as he looked Ian over.

“A fight with a friend, huh? You have hickeys on your neck, obvious hand mark bruises on your waist, and you smell like an old man cologne factory. You honestly expect us to believe that was all this is? For Christ’s sake, Ian, your arm is broken and you walked home barefoot.”

Trust Lip to figure him out. Ian glanced down at his feet distractedly; he hadn’t even noticed he’d forgotten his shoes. It could tie him to the crime scene but—fuck, it wasn’t a crime scene. He hadn’t killed Rick and if the fucker called the cops, Ian had enough evidence to get him thrown away for a long, long time, even if no one usually cared about South Side kids. Why didn’t anyone ever care, anyway? If someone just cared, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. Like, if Monica or Frank hadn’t—

“Ian, talk to us. Take what’s going on up here,” at this Fiona tapped his head, “and make it come out here.” She gestured to his mouth. He shook the cobwebs that had been forming in his mind and looked up at them, knowing he had to give them something.

“Fine. The guy I was fucking got a little rough, okay? But—”

Lip and Fiona both started protesting the word ‘little’ at the same time.

“Shut up. Listen, I dealt with it so everything’s fine now—”

The word fine set them off again.

“He didn’t even really—”

When they interrupted a third time, it felt like someone had jammed a white hot poker into the back of Ian’s mind and he slammed his good hand abruptly down on the table, hiding the wince at the reverberations in his broken arm and tattered feet.

“SHUT THE FUCK UP AND LISTEN TO ME FOR ONCE IN YOUR GODDAMNED LIVES, OKAY? A guy I was screwing got too handsy and we got into a big fight, and I beat the shit out of him! Yes, my arm is broken, because I tripped on my way out! Yes, I left my shoes there but it was because I was in too much fucking pain to remember them! And yes, my whole goddamn fucking body is throbbing in pain, but I. Will. Be. Alright. You understand that? Lip, you’re a genius, can you fucking figure that out? Can you? Great. A-oh-fucking-kay. I’m going to bed, and you can all just screw the hell off and leave me alone!”

With that, Ian turned on a bloody heel and left them to talk about how fucking rebellious he was being. Fuck them, talking about him behind his back. He threw off clothes, stripping, throwing on PJs, his mind in an angry whirl. Then he sat on the edge of his bed, his foot jiggling, as he tried to brush the cobwebs out of his head and think straight. All he got was blood, broken, rape, beat, bloody, fuck, rape, kill, fuck, rape, rape, fuck, shutup shutup and

“Ian? You okay?” Carl asked, sitting up to give Ian a long look. It was the fear in his younger brother’s eyes that finally cleared his head and allowed him to focus properly. When he did, he almost cried. Shit, what had he been thinking, anyway? Lip and Fiona were just trying to help and he’d acted like an ungrateful brat. So much for not being a burden on them. And here he was, stewing in some dark, twisted thoughts and freaking out a kid he loved, who usually wasn’t freaked out by anything. Tonight had been bad, of course, but he’d deal with it himself. No more taking it out on other people.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Sorry for worrying you guys, it’s just been a long night.”

He offered Carl a smile, which seemed to appease the kid, who nodded and leaned back to fall asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. Lip came in next, while Fiona stood at the door, arms crossed, giving Ian that _look_. The one that said, ‘you’re on my shitlist now, kid.’ Ian met her gaze with his own, conjuring up all the guilt he felt as he murmured, “I’m really sorry. I just don’t feel like talking right now. You guys listen to me all the time and I had no right to freak out.”

Fiona’s look softened into an I’m-still-mad-but-I-forgive-you look and she came in to drop a kiss on the top of his head. “It’s okay, I get it. Sleep on it and we’ll talk in the morning. Love you, kiddo.”

After she’d left, Lip came to sit beside Ian next, raising an eyebrow.

“Sorry, man, I didn’t mean to insult you like that,” Ian said with a sigh.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Bad days happen to the best of us. Look, when you’re ready to talk, we’ll talk, but until then I’m still taking matters into my own hands and finding this ‘Richard’ guy who donated a thousand bucks, because I’m guessing he’s the one who did this. I’ll blackmail him for fifty thousand or something, and when he gives it to us I’ll still call the cops. After beating the shit out of him myself. Sound good?”

Ian couldn’t help the slow grin that grew across his face until it mirrored Lip’s.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“No worries. Oh, and here’s your new phone. Keep it a secret from Fiona.”

***

_Received at 3:04 am_

_From: Unknown Number_

**Hi, Go Fuck Yourself, it’s Ian. Just thought you’d want to know I got a new phone!**

_Sent at 3:04 am_

_To: Unknown Number_

**what happened to your old one, fuckface?**

_Received at 3:05 am_

_From: Unknown Number_

**I lost it again. Yeah, yeah, I know, I’m an idiot and all that.**

_Sent at 3:05 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**liar**

_Received at 3:14 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Come on, man, why would I lie about that?**

_Sent at 3:14 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**773-877-1938**

_Received at 3:15 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**What’s that supposed to be, a number I call that steals my credit card info or whatever? Not too creative, man, I gotta say.**

_Sent at 3:16 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**t** **rauma survivors hotline**

__

_Sent at 3:31 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**in case you need help because you’ve been spending too long looking at your fucking ugly mug in the mirror**

_Received at 3:32 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**What would you know about my face? I’ll bet if you saw me, you’d fall on your knees and worship me.**

_Sent at 3:33 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**shut the fuck up, dipshit. some people actually need fucking sleep, we aren’t all freaks like you**

_Received at 3:34 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Fair enough. Goodnight, starshine. Sleep tight. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.**

_Received at 3:39 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**and thanks**

_Sent at 3:40 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**just go the fuck to sleep**

_***_

__

Mickey told himself it was because he didn’t want to get tangled with the cops if this thing blew up and Phone Guy killed himself or something. He told himself that as he smiled himself to sleep. Starshine. Ha. Fucking loser.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I made up the phone number. I know nothing about area codes and the way phone numbers work.


	3. First Meetings

It wasn’t Mandy’s fault that Mickey left his phone on his bed when he went to shower, and she was naturally curious about why he’d been smiling when she’d walked by his room last night. It wasn’t her fault at all—Mickey rarely smiled, and the smile lit by the tiny blue screen of his phone peaked her interest more than it’d been peaked in a while. So she couldn’t be blamed for her curiosity. But yes, she could most definitely be blamed for stealing his phone off his bed and running back to her room, throwing the door shut and locking it before sitting on her bed to surf his texts and contacts.

His texts were all mundane shit about drug deals and hookers, but there was one thing that caught her attention—‘Phone Guy.’ It was the only contact in his list that didn’t have a curse word and wasn’t a nickname she recognized. She chewed her lip thoughtfully, listening to the sound of the shower shutting off; she only had a couple of minutes before Mick was banging on her door and hollering for his phone back. She’d known Mick was gay for a while, but she’d never really expected anything to come of it; he was too scared of their father. So, of course, seeing him smile and seeing the name ‘Phone Guy’ made her wonder…

 

_Sent at 9:32 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**hi im mick’s sister mandy. how do u 2 kno each other?**

_Received at 9:35 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Mick? Is that the name of the guy who owns this phone?**

_Sent at 9:35 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**yeah mickey lol do u not know him or what? whys he got ur number?**

_Received at 9:37 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Aw, cute. Mickey, like Mickey Mouse. The reason he’s got my number is sort of a long**

**story, but we’re pretty much just fucking with each other.**

__

“Mandy! Where’s my fucking phone? You seen it anywhere?”

 

_Received at 9:38 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**I don’t think he likes me much though.**

_Sent at 9:39 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**u made him smile last night whatever you said**

__

“MANDY!”

_Received at 9:39 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Really? Does he smile often?**

_Sent at 9:40 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**no i think he likes u**

_Received at 9:40 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Sweet. I like fucking with him so it’s good to know he won’t block me.**

 

“Mandy!” Mickey yelled, slamming a fist against her door so hard it trembled. “Yo, you got my phone in there or something? I can’t find the fuckin’ thing.”

Mandy tapped the phone against her lip with a grin. Mickey was waiting for ‘Phone Guy’s’ text wasn’t he? Whoever this guy was, Mickey must like him more than he let on. Probably gave Mick as good as he got, which wasn’t something her older brother was used to. If Mick really did like him and being friends with Phone Guy would make him happy, Mandy was willing to do whatever it took to bring the guy here.

“I think I saw it in the kitchen, Mick! God, you’re such a fucking pig, you leave your shit everywhere!” Mandy yelled, her thumbs flying as she heard Mickey muttering to himself. Something about how he was sure he left it on his pillow.

 

_Sent at 9:41 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**how old are u anyway? dont want an old perv fucking with my bro**

_Received at 9:42 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Be eighteen in a month. How old is Mickey?**

 

No way, this was too good. He was only a couple of years younger than Mick. If Mick got close with him and was actually able to open up, maybe he’d talk about being gay and this guy would accept him. He seemed polite enough; had good grammar, capitalization and all that shit. If he could accept Mick, maybe Mick could accept himself and be who he wanted to for once in his life. If any of the Milkovich’s should have that, it was Mick. He had the biggest heart.

_Sent at 9:43 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**pics or it didnt happen. micks 20**

_Received at 9:44 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Okay. I’m not really into the selfie thing so just a second.**

_Received at 9:46 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**[You have received a photo from ‘Phone Guy’]**

Mandy had to rub her eyes and look again at the photo Phone Guy had sent. It looked like a photo taken by someone else, showing a gorgeous redhead with tussled hair and playful blue-green eyes grinning into the camera. He had typical redhead skin; pale and freckled, and features that managed to be handsome and childish at the same time. Fuck, he was hot. She’d jump that like an Olympic pole vaulter given half the chance. Here she’d thought she’d have to fuck some fat pimply South Side nerd to get him friendly with Mick, but this guy was the complete opposite of what she’d expected. He looked too sweet to exist in this neighbourhood, and it almost made her feel bad about what she was planning next.

_Sent at 9:47 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**you showed me yours so ill show you mine**

**[Sending photo to ‘Phone Guy’]**

Mandy had rearranged her shirt to expose the top of her breasts, and poked her tongue out of her lips provocatively with an exaggerated ‘fuck-me’ face. It was the kind of face that had gotten loads of guys in bed with her, and she’d expected Phone Guy to reply with a ‘can I come over’ right away. Instead, there was a long pause in which she could hear Mickey tearing the house apart.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Mandy, I found your phone! And I’ve heard a phone buzzing in your room for the past ten minutes. Why the fuck do you have my phone? Do I need to break this fucking door down?”

Now he was standing outside, banging on the door again with more force than before. He was pissed and it wouldn’t be long before he literally broke the door down. “Come the fuck on, Phone Guy,” she murmured. When the phone went off again, Mickey almost went nuts

 

_Received at 9:55 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**You’re pretty, Mandy, really. But I’m gay.**

 

Mandy’s eyes nearly popped out of her head. Out of all the people’s phones for Mick to find, he’d found the only sweet, hot gay boy’s in South Side. Who was two years younger than him. Who was smart. Who made him smile. Mandy could hardly believe the luck.

 

_Sent at 9:55 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**mick is too**

_Received at 9:56 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Are you fucking with me or are you serious?**

_Sent at 9:56 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**hundred percent serious. dont tell him i told u tho. hes in the closet cuz dad will beat him if he finds out. he thinks no one knows**

_Received at 9:57 am_

_From: Phone Guy_

**Wow. Okay, I definitely won’t. Hey, does your dad beat him a lot? Like, is he okay living there?**

_Sent at 9:57 am_

_To: Phone Guy_

**gtg bye nice chatting with u**

Wood splintered as Mickey literally kicked the door down, and Mandy screeched at him, backing up to her headboard and erasing all her texts with ‘Phone Guy’ as fast as she could. Mick stormed into the room, holding out his hand with an expression that was beyond fury.

“What. The. Fuck. Mandy?” he asked, each word sharp as he glared at her. But Mick never glared at her the way he glared at other people—there was a softness in his gaze even now that made her feel safe. He’d kick her door down in a rage, but he would never hurt her.

“Phone Guy is almost eighteen, sweet, and fucking gorgeous. He also refused to sleep with me,” Mandy said with a large grin as she placed the phone into Mickey’s fingertips, which almost dropped it as he processed what she was saying. She could see possibilities swarming through his mind (her brother wasn’t the most subtle person to ever exist) as he thought about what it meant having a gorgeous eighteen year old guy on the other end. She wanted to jump up and hug Mick, until she saw the hope drain from his face as he closed himself off again. Fuck Terry and the shitty way he brought up his kids.

“Don’t steal my fucking phone again, Mandy. And what did you say to him, anyway?” Mickey asked, frowning as he scrolled his phone and found she’d deleted the messages she sent. Mandy gave him the most innocent, shit-starting smile she could.

“I told him you were twenty and your name is Mickey. He thought it was cute. I also mentioned dad and he was all concerned about you. It’s really sweet, actually. He your boyfriend?”

She spent the rest of the day running from Mickey, laughing because he wouldn’t actually do anything if he caught her anyway, and hurting a little inside because Mickey kept using the phrase ‘I’m not a fucking fag’ as if it were some sort of shield.

***

Ian didn’t know whether to smile or frown at his phone. The fact that the guy on the other end was probably attractive (judging from his sister, who was pretty in a South Side kind of way) and he was also gay and amusing made Ian grin like a maniac. But the fact that the guy’s dad would beat him if he ever found out he was gay took the grin away just as fast. It was definitely that kind of neighbourhood. If there was one thing in the world Ian was thankful for about Frank, it was that although Frank could be an abusive asshole, he wasn’t a homophobic abusive asshole. Besides, he hadn’t hit Ian in ages.

Ian’s face twisted thoughtfully as he stared at the contact info on his phone. He had a number and a first name. It wasn’t much to go on—for all he knew, the guy could be a coke-head rapist murderer, but Ian didn’t think so. His sister cared about him and he’d sent Ian that hotline number, which meant he was probably a nice guy deep down.

 

_Received at 2:53 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**what the fuck did that lying bitch mandy actually say to you?**

 

Deep, deep down.

 

_Received at 2:53 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**she’s had more dicks in her mouth than you so i wouldn’t trust anything that comes out of it if i were you**

So deep it made Marianas Trench look shallow. But Ian snorted at the presumption Mickey’d made.

 

_Sent at 2:55 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Clearly you know nothing about my dick sucking habits.**

The pause was so long Ian thought Mickey might have blocked him. It would make sense, wouldn’t it? Mickey’s dad would expect his son to be a homophobe too. Ian leaned forward, pressing his head against the cool counter of the Kash and Grab. He’d fucked up, hadn’t he? Of course he had. He was fucking up a lot. First with Rick, now with Mickey, next with who? His family? He’d already screwed them over once, and fuck, he’d screw them over again. Shit, Lip would walk in any second and tell him not to come home, not to even bother because

 

_Received at 3:34 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**you’re a fucking fag?**

 

Ian stared down at the phone in astonishment, blinking rapidly. How did one respond to that? He couldn’t. There was absolutely no way… Okay. Okay, maybe he could.

 

_Sent at 3:37 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Naw man, I’m no cigarette. Though I wouldn’t mind if you put me between your lips ;) I’m gay.**

_Received at 3:38 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**jesus fucking christ i’ve had enough of your fucking sass for one day**

_Sent at 3:39 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**But have you had enough of my ass? That’s the question you should be asking yourself, man.**

_Received at 3:40 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**do you ever get tired of your own personality?**

_Sent at 3:41 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Never. Thanks for caring, though.**

_Received at 3:42 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**oh fuck you. fuck you so hard**

_Sent at 3:43 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Was that an offer? I’m down for a hard fuck.**

Ian was still smirking when the door open, and he looked up to see one of the Milkovich brothers walk in. It was the good looking one, who had the blue-blue eyes and the dark hair. Who would be much better looking if he ever learned how to bathe, but that probably wasn’t in the Milkovich handbook. Ian could feel his mood instantly sink as the guy lazily trotted down one of the aisles, glancing over the chocolate bars. There was no way he’d be able to fight off a Milkovich in the state he was in. He’d had to get Lip to walk him here since Kev had given the crutches away to Kermit, and he hadn’t stood up since Lip had gingerly eased him into the chair behind the counter.

 

_Received at 3:44 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**stop. please. i’m scared your dumbassness might be contagious and i don’t want to end up full fucking retard**

 

Ian laughed silently down at his phone, glancing up to see the brother squinting at his with a slight grin. He wondered who would be texting _that_ guy. He’d heard the Milkovich’s were into whores and drugs, so probably someone contacting him about one of the above. He sat up a little straighter, keeping an eye on Blue Eyes (what the fuck was his first name? there were so goddamn many Milkovich brothers Ian couldn’t keep track of them all) as he brought his phone up to type another message.

 

_Sent at 3:46 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Okay, okay. I certainly wouldn’t want you to go _full_ retard—half is already bad enough.**

Ian glanced up with a frown as Blue Eyes scoffed at his phone, shaking his head before grabbing some candy bars and milk. He wondered if there was anything he could say to Blue Eyes to get him to not rob the store. He vaguely remembered the Milkovich sister (what was her name? fuck, his memory for names was bad) but she’d rarely come to school and she’d dropped out ages ago. ‘I know your sister’ probably wouldn’t go over well, considering the fact that he probably wouldn’t recognize her even if he saw her on the street, and Blue Eyes might think he was trying to start something.

 

_Received at 3:47 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**i think i might actually fucking hate you.**

_Sent at 3:47 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Aw, that means you’re already halfway to love!**

The loud exclamation of ‘you fucking little asshole’ followed by a smile that made Blue Eyes all the more attractive made Ian set his phone down and lean over the counter, despite the pain in his arm and the tingle of his torn feet as they brushed the ground.

“Hey, uh, you’re paying for that, right, man? I don’t want any trouble.”

Blue Eyes looked up from his phone as if annoyed someone had distracted him, but he did a double take when he saw Ian. Ian knew he looked bad—his face was fucked, his arm was all puffy and bruised under the makeshift sling V had made that morning, and the high collared shirt he’d worn did little to cover the dark bruises Rick’s disgusting mouth had left.

“Je-sus,” Blue Eyes muttered as he looked Ian over, shaking his head and coming up to place his items on the counter. “What happened to you? Some drug dealer hit you with a fucking bus or some shit?”

Ian was so ecstatic a Milkovich was in a good enough mood to pay that he almost forgot to answer. Then he swallowed past the raw memory of last night and looked into eyes that were even bluer up close. Shit, if this guy showered, he might just be the hottest thing South Side. Even without a shower, Ian’d bang him. He quickly averted his eyes, ringing the items through in case Blue Eyes saw his look. He was pretty sure there’d be no paying ever if he gave Blue Eyes bedroom eyes.

“Just a fight,” he offered with a shrug, pretending not to notice the way Blue Eyes’ brows arched at the dark hickeys. But obviously whoever he was texting took more precedence then a beat-up store clerk, because Blue Eyes said nothing; he only threw a twenty on the counter and strode out, not bothering to collect the change. Ian closed his eyes with a long sigh of relief, thanking his lucky stars for whoever was texting Blue Eyes.

***

_Sent at 8:58 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**So it’s my birthday in a month.**

_Received at 8:59 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**and i should give a shit because?**

_Sent at 9:00 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**What are you getting me?**

_Received at 9:01 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**what**

_Received at 9:01 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**the fuck**

_Sent at 9:02 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Since you didn’t give my phone back, you’d better get me a birthday present, man. It’s only fair.**

_Received at 9:03 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**did you take some pills? with the fucking smiley faces on them?**

_Sent at 9:05 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**I think we should meet up in a month. I’ll wait for you at the L.**

_Received at 9:05 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**did anyone ever tell you you’re an ASSHOLE?**

_Sent at 9:06 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Yeah. You just did. Thanks :) See you in a month? December 27 th. Shitty time to have a birthday, I know. You may as well buy me a Christmas gift too.**

_Received at 9:09 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**do you even read my fucking texts or do you just make shit up in your head? like do i actually agree to all this shit in your head?**

_Sent at 9:11 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Yeah, seven at night works for me too. Don’t worry, I’ll get you a Christmas gift.**

_Received at 9:14 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**well gee, ian, thanks a whole fucking bunch for that. thanks for the gift, and for the plans, and for texting me every night, and for being the biggest MOST ANNOYING PAIN IN MY FUCKING ASS**

_Sent at 9:15 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**By the way, how was your day? Mine was great.**

***

Ian laughed when Mickey didn’t text him back right away; the guy had obviously had enough for one night. But when he’d asked about Mickey’s day, he was honestly curious. Now that he’d had a taste of info from Mandy, he wanted to know more. A whole lot more. What did Mickey do all day? Did he have a job? An education? Was he still living with his abusive father? Must be, if he was still living with his younger sister. What did he want his future to be like? Did he want to come out or was he content not being himself?

Ian wanted to ask all those questions, but he didn’t even know where or how he was supposed to start. Mickey was such a closed person, Ian was scared he’d never learn anything at all. But he kind of felt like the guy was warming up to him. A little. His texts were getting longer and they were keeping up a kind of banter now. Ian couldn’t believe he was the only one getting amusement from this; Mickey texted him back immediately after almost every text. Well, except when he got angry. Ian was just about to tell Mickey goodnight—for whatever reason, he was starting to get so tired he could barely see straight—when his phone buzzed again.

 

_Received at 9:52 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**i forgot to tell you, so don’t get your fag panties in a knot, but your mom called. she said she’s coming home or some shit.**

_Sent at 9:53 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Oh fuck. Fuck. No. Monica?**

_Received at 9:54 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**yeah, that’s it. she sounded like a fucking nutjob. you cool with her showing up?**

_Sent at 10:08 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**I don’t know, Mick. I really don’t fucking know.**

 

Ian turned off his phone before he got the reply, then flipped over and stared at the wall. Monica. He really didn’t know how he felt about her coming back. She’d fucked up their lives too many times for him to count, but he couldn’t stop himself from loving her. She was their mother, and he understood it wasn’t her fault. Being bipolar must suck balls, and not in the good way.

But he was way too tired to deal with thinking more about that bullshit, so he let his eyes drift closed, ignoring Lip’s question of “you okay?”

 

Because he was feeling foggy again and he just couldn’t fucking handle it right now.


	4. I Just Wanna Know You Better

“Ian. Hey, Ian, wake up, man. It’s almost noon.”

Ian groaned, rolling over to consult his alarm clock and seeing the alarming news that yes, it was indeed noon. He bolted upright, rubbing his eyes (and wincing at the pain that brought), and immediately made to jump out of bed. Shit, shit, shit, how late was he for his shift? At least a few hours. Linda would kill him!

“I called Linda, told her you were sick. You okay, man?” Lip asked as Ian finally calmed down from his frantic searching for clean clothes to look at Lip. The expression on Lip’s face was wary, as if he were trying to calm down a frightened animal that might lunge out at any time. Ian brushed a hand over his face and through his hair, shaking his head with a sheepish grin.

“Yeah. I guess I just didn’t know how tired I was until I crashed last night,” he said with a light laugh, mentally probing his mind for any sign of fogginess. But he found none; he was A-okay at the moment. Not oddly happy for no reason, not incredibly tired for no reason. Lip gave him a long, measured look, bringing a cigarette up to his lips and managing to make smoking look thoughtful.

“You’ve been acting kind of different the past couple of days. Think it’s this thing with Richard?”

Oh yeah, Rick. Ian had thought of him briefly, but the thoughts were surprisingly fleeting despite the fact that Rick had almost raped him. When he thought back on the fogginess and weird jumps his mind had been making lately, it all seemed to have started around that day. He thought there had been concentration problems before the thing with Rick, but he wasn’t too sure. Nah, couldn’t be.

“Probably. I haven’t really processed it yet. I feel foggy and it gets hard to concentrate sometimes, which are textbook for PTSD.”

Lip took the cigarette from his mouth and they both watched the smoke drift slowly towards the ceiling. “Textbook for PTSD, early schizophrenia, depersonalization, mood disorders, and/or early bipolar disorder. Mental illnesses all seem to start with the same things. You sure you’re okay?”

Lip had developed an obsession with mental illness a few years back after finding out that Monica was bipolar, so he knew his shit. Ian could tell by the way he jiggled his foot and took out another cigarette directly after the first that he was getting himself all worked up and worried. Over nothing, because all Ian had was some PTSD he could deal with. Know thy enemy and you can defeat it or something.

“Dude, I’m totally fine. Still sane. Still gay. Still the best looking brother in the family,” Ian laughed, throwing on his shirt and grabbing his phone as Lip nodded, looking sort of convinced. Whatever. Lip would see—he’d be better after a week or so. “Oh and uh… Monica’s coming home.” This time Ian avoided Lip’s eyes, focusing on buttoning his shirt as he heard a sharp inhale of breath and then long, loud coughing from inhaling too much smoke.

“Why the fuck didn’t you lead with that? Shit, we’ve gotta tell Fi. Remember last time?” Ian most certainly did. “She was all hyped up and she dragged Carl around. He was fucking ecstatic. She bought him all those guns and whatever with Frank’s money, remember? Then she did a three sixty and was going to use one of his guns to—”

“Yeah, I know,” Ian interrupted, wincing. He didn’t want to hear about the things Monica did when she was in her depression phase right now. Lip nodded in understanding, putting out his cigarette and standing up.

“Alright. I’m gunna go let Fi know. But listen, Ian, you start feeling weird, you call. I have to go back to college tomorrow night—test the next day—and Fiona’s got that job. We need you checked in for Carl and Deb and Liam.”

“Lip, I’m fine. Go talk to Fi,” Ian sighed, shaking his head. It wasn’t supposed to be like this; he wasn’t the one people normally worried about. He wasn’t doing coke or cutting up small animals and he couldn’t get pregnant. When Lip continued to squint at him, he ran past, slugging his older brother in the arm with his good hand and sprinting to the bathroom. When he was finally away from prying eyes, he kicked the door shut lightly and took out his phone with a grin. A grin that faded as he saw the first new message Mickey had sent.

 

_Received at 9:42 am_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**what’s she like anyway?**

_Received at 10:21 am_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**come on, just fucking tell me. i need to know if she’ll trace the phone to my house and kill me or something because she thinks i fucked with you**

_Received at 10:52 am_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**you fucking ignoring me, dipshit?**

_Received at 11:23 am_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**christ are you a fucking girl or something? fine, don’t tell me, but don’t give me the goddamn silent treatment for wondering**

_Received at 11:45 am_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**ian? you fucking dead?**

_Sent at 12:05 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Jesus, you’re needy, man. I sleep in for a couple of extra hours and you’re losing your shit. Worried much?**

_Received at 12:05 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**you went to bed at like ten**

_Received at 12:06 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**how the fuck does that mean you need to sleep till twelve?**

_Sent at 12:07 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**I was tired.**

_Received at 12:08 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**tired is sleeping for ten hours, not fourteen, dipshit. you coming down with the plague?**

_Sent at 12:09 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Definitely. My dying wish is to meet you in person, so do you want to meet at the L today?**

_Received at 12:10 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**screw you**

_Received at 12:12 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**tell me about monica**

_Sent at 12:12 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Tell me about your dad.**

_Received at 12:13 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**what the hell? no fucking way asshole**

_Sent at 12:14_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Then no dirt on my mom. If you wanna play twenty questions, you have to answer too. It’s only fair, man.**

 

There was no answer to that so Ian jammed his phone in his pocket and ran down the stairs, grabbing a pancake from a plate Fiona was stacking and bolting with a laugh at the look on her face.

It was gorgeous outside, the sky as blue as the Milkovich brother’s eyes, not a cloud to be seen. The sight warmed Ian to the core, and he felt a strange giddiness rising in his chest. Man, it was good to be alive on this fine Sunday in South Side. He bounced on his toes, feeling energy rising from the core of his being to his head. His feet were scabbed over but his arm might still give him problems if it jolted while he was running. But he needed to _do_ something. Anything. If his face wasn’t so fucked at the moment, he might run to the bar and give someone a good pounding.

An idea popped into his head that was so crazy he almost looked around to see if anyone had heard it. He really needed to practise his shooting skills for ROTC, and he knew the Milkovich’s sold guns. He could buy one and shoot at a mannequin or something. The only problem was that if he was caught with an illegal weapon, it could fuck up his future.

He was stuck between choosing the here and now and choosing his future when his phone went off.

_Received at 12:34 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**fine, you wanna hear about him that much, i’ll fucking tell you**

_Received at 12:36 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**he’s an asshole who drinks too much. sometimes he comes home and beats the shit out of us for no reason, sometimes he has reasons. if he knew i was texting a fag, he’d probably kill me.**

_Sent at 12:37 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Then why don’t you and your sister leave?**

_Received at 12:38 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**and go where, dumbass? if we left him to deal with his business all by himself, he’d probably hunt us down and do worse than kill us.**

_Sent at 12:39 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**So get him locked up. Pick a fight in front of the cops or something.**

_Received at 12:40 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**ha. he’s not a fucking idiot, he’d never fall for that**

_Sent at 12:41 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**So say something that will make him mad enough to be one.**

_Received at 12:42 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**like what?**

_Sent at 12:45 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Tell him you’re gay.**

_Received at 12:46 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**i’m not fucking gay and i’m not fucking talking about this anymore. tell me about monica.**

_Sent at 12:47 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**There’s not much to say. She’s a deadbeat mom who comes and goes. Her disorder fucks with her moods so she’s never normal. When she’s manic, she’s spending all of our money and getting into bad shit. When she’s depressed, she won’t get out of bed and she sometimes tries to kill herself. I don’t like her around my younger siblings.**

_Received at 12:50 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**shit, man. she ever try that suicide shit around you?**

_Sent at 12:51 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**First time I helped my older brother hold her blood in her veins. Second time the car crash nearly killed me and three of my siblings. Third time it took all of us to talk her down from painting the wall with her brains.**

_Received at 12:53 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**fuck**

_Received at 12:53 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**disorders can do that to you?**

_Sent at 12:54 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**If she’s any indication, yeah.**

_Received at 12:55 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**that shit genetic?**

_Sent at 12:56 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Yeah, but whatever. It is what it is. Your turn to answer the next question. What kind of hobbies and interests do you have?**

_Received at 12:57 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**jesus, that’s a lame ass question. i dunno. shooting count as a hobby?**

_Sent at 12:58 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Of course. Shooting is the best damn hobby there is.**

_Received at 12:59 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**don’t i fucking know it. i guess i like drawing pictures and shit too. and beating rapists and pedos up. as for interests… history is the fucking bomb. all those wars and guys just getting bloody for what they believe in? shit’s great**

_Sent at 1:02 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Amen to that, brother. Favourite movie?**

_Received at 1:03 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**hold the fuck up. my turn, lightning mcqueen. emphasis on the queen. same question. hobbies and interests.**

_Sent at 1:04 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**I thought you said it was a lame ass question.**

_Received at 1:05 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**just fucking answer dipshit**

_Sent at 1:06 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Honestly? I like shooting and history too. Running, working out, staying in shape for ROTC. Other than that, books about war heroes are cool and I’d never turn down a good action flick.**

_Received at 1:07 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**rotc? you planning on signing up for the army after school?**

_Sent at 1:08 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Now who’s playing Lightning McQUEEN?**

_Received at 1:09 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**jesus, fuck. fine. either american history x or fight club.**

_Sent at 1:10 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Norton fan? You’re a man after my own heart.**

_Received at 1:11 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**w** **ho the fuck doesn’t like norton besides rapists and pedos?**

_Sent at 1:12 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Right? And Primal Fear was brilliant.**

_Received at 1:13 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**that final “way to go marty” blew my fucking brain all over the walls**

_Sent at 1:14 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Shit, you’re making me want to watch it all over again.**

_Received at 1:15 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**i’m making myself want to watch it all over again**

_Received at 1:16 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**but it’s your turn. military?**

_Sent at 1:17 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Yeah. I want to serve my country and maybe make it a little safer for my family.**

_Received at 1:18 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**one guy can’t make the world a safer fucking place**

_Sent at 1:19 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Says the guy who was just gushing about guys fighting for what they believe in.**

_Received at 1:20 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**i wasn’t fucking gushing. and i just meant i’m surprised you think you’d do well there, being gay and all.**

_Sent at 1:21 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Mick, not everyone in the military is a homophobic asshole. I actually get more tail there than anywhere else. A surprising amount of guys want to take it rather it than give it.**

_Received at 1:22 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**jesus, dipshit, i don’t wanna know about your fucking sex life**

_Sent at 1:23 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Why not? I could put you down on the list if you wanted.**

_Received at 1:24 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**a list? christ, you fuck that many guys?**

_Sent at 1:25 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Not really. Maybe fifteen since I was thirteen? Fifteen guys, I mean, not fifteen fucks.**

_Received at 1:26 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**fuck. you shouldn’t be doing that shit**

_Sent at 1:27 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Ha, and why not? Should I be saving myself for a marriage that’s never going to happen?**

_Received at 1:28 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**you’ll get a reputation as a twink or something**

_Sent at 1:29 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Who says I’m not?**

_Received at 1:30 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**your interests and the fact that you’re a fucking norton fan**

_Sent at 1:31 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Fair enough. But you don’t need to worry about me; no one will think I’m a twink. I’m doing so well in ROTC I might have a spot at West Point next year.**

_Received at 1:32 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**yeah? what about that test you did so shitty on?**

_Sent at 1:33 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Aw, you remembered.**

_Received at 1:33 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**fuck you**

_Sent at 1:34 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Anyone ever tell you that you curse way too much? Anyway, my brother tutored me and I think the rest of my grades are good enough.**

_Received at 1:35 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**screw off, i’ll curse when i want to.**

_Received at 1:35 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**your brother must be pretty damn smart to tutor a retard like you**

_Sent at 1:36 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**He’s so smart he might even be able to tutor you on proper capitalization and punctuation. Although that might be a bit hard even for him. :)**

_Received at 1:37 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**Just because I’m fucking lazy, don’t mean I don’t how to use capitals and shit.**

_Sent at 1:38 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Wow, a South Side boy who actually knows what capitals are? Where have you been my whole life?**

_Received at 1:39 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**Hiding from your ugly fucking mug. My turn. What’s your biggest fear or whatever?**

_Sent at 1:40 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**You get that from a website on getting to know you questions?**

_Received at 1:41 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**Answer the goddamn question, dipshit.**

_Sent at 1:42 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Becoming like Monica. Losing control. You?**

_Received at 1:43 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**Becoming like my dad. Not being fucking free. Things that make you laugh?**

_Sent at 1:44 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**Will Ferrell. Melissa McCarthy. You.**

_Received at 1:45 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**Shut the fuck up, do you think I’m joking?**

_Sent at 1:46 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**No, I just genuinely like you. You make me laugh. What about you, what tickles your funny bone?**

_Received at 1:47 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**Rich kids trying to look cool doing shit drugs. Scrawny guys who fight back. The fact that you think you’re so fucking clever.**

_Sent at 1:49 pm_

_To: Mickey Mouse_

**I don’t _think_ I’m clever. I just am clever.**

_Received at 1:50 pm_

_From: Mickey Mouse_

**Yeah, you’re so clever you could be the second smartest kid on the short bus. Quit trying to be fucking witty and tell me what your favourite book is.**

***

Ian spent the rest of the day like that, sitting on the park bench that was now becoming familiar and texting Mickey for the entire afternoon. He must’ve looked like an idiot, murmuring under his breath with grins and laughing, but he honestly didn’t care. The more he got to know about Mickey, the more he liked the guy. Mickey was crude, tough, and cautious, but he was way smarter than he initially sounded and he could keep up a banter like no one else Ian had spoken to before. He loved texting the foul-mouthed Norton fan. It had only been six days, but he was already thinking of Mickey as a good friend. And yeah, okay, he was maybe starting to develop a crush. Fuck.

It was four hours later when Mickey finally texted that he had to go, and Ian was shocked that the time had flown by so quickly. It was almost dinner and he hadn’t even noticed. He shoved his phone in his pocket and stood up, stretching languidly, feeling good. Good, but not like his blood was on fire and the only way to quench it was to do something extreme. Stupid fucking PTSD; mood swings were a pain in the ass.

He was just about to leave when he heard a gasping exclamation of surprise, and then a loud voice.

“Ian? Is that you?”

He turned, his heart both sinking and rising in a weird mixture of love and trepidation. Monica stood there, her eyes welling with tears as she took in his beaten, battered face, the cast on his arm, and the dark bruises on his neck.

“Hey, Mom,” he whispered, his voice oddly hoarse, glad she’d worn long sleeves so the scars on her wrists wouldn’t be a constant reminder of the times she’d hated herself enough to want to die. And then she was flinging herself at him, wrapping her arms around his frame as he bit back a cry at the way his bones creaked in protest.

“Oh baby, my poor Ian, what did they do to you? I’m so sorry I haven’t been here, I got back as fast as I could. I’m doing better now, I really am, so let me get you back home. I’ll make you some soup and I’ll take care of you, I promise this time I’ll be a real mom,” Monica rambled, pushing his hair back from his face and searching his eyes with a desperation that scared him. He bit back tears of anger and frustration, dropping his head and nodding a little. What else was he supposed to do? It was Monica, and if he rejected her, she’d only move on to one of the other kids. He couldn’t let Deb or Carl or Liam get let down by this woman again. He _couldn’t_. He’d just have to let her take care of him and remember that she would leave.

“My Ian, my baby, I’m going to make up all these years to you. Let me help you back, okay?” she asked, her voice wavering. He nodded a little more and she wrapped an arm tightly around his waist, guiding him home as if he were five years old. He knew he shouldn’t, but he relaxed into her embrace and let himself be led. Just for a little while. Letting himself feel young again couldn’t hurt if it was just for a little bit, right?

***

Mickey hummed under his breath as he made his way to the whorehouse. He was going to meet Terry there, because Terry had mentioned something about one of the girls getting pregnant and how it was Mickey’s. It sure as fuck wasn’t; Mickey’d never even touched one of those girls, but he’d paid off the prettiest, Svetlana, to say that he’d fucked her so his dad wouldn’t make a fag comment. Whatever. He didn’t really care what it was about, because his mind was filled with all of the things he’d learned about Ian today.

The guy wasn’t what he’d expected. What he’d expected was maybe a limp-wristed sassy fag who was into girly shit and couldn’t hold up well in a fight. What he’d gotten was a clever military brat with great taste in movies and music who could take a guy down in under five seconds. And still manage to be kind and caring, especially when it came to his siblings. That… _that_ was a problem.

The longer he’d talked to Ian and the more he found out, the more he’d felt a sort of uncomfortableness writhing under his skin. Ian made him laugh, kept inadvertently trying to find out more about his home situation, kept deflecting questions that involved problems. Mickey had begun to understand something the longer they talked, and it was something troubling. Ian took care of everyone, was a source of stability, took it all on himself… and didn’t let anyone take care of him. If he took on that much shit all the time without ever sharing, what would happen? Mickey didn’t fucking know, but it pissed him off. He kicked a beer bottle that was lying on the street and then winced as it shattered just under a window.

He was about to bolt in case the store manager came out and yelled at him or something—he’d love a fight right now, but Terry would be pissed if he was late—when he noticed the display in the window. Books. It was a bookstore, which was fucked up because who really had time to read around here? Well, besides Ian. For some reason, it made him curious, so he glanced all down the street to make sure no one was watching, then he ran to the door and ducked in.

The moment he straightened and looked around, he felt way out of place. The musty smell of books and the calm, peaceful aura of the place sent shivers down his spine, and he immediately wanted to leave. But first, there was one thing he needed to check out. He glanced over the labelling on the shelves, feeling jumpy; if someone came in and saw him, he had no idea what he’d say. Mystery, romance, horror, fantasy… nonfiction. Biographies.

He wondered how suspicious he must look, creeping into the biographies section as if he were about to deal drugs with the little old lady leafing through a Shania Twain book. She looked up and did a double take, then took a couple steps back before turning and running out of the aisle. So much for that.

One more check to make sure no one was watching, then he actually reached up lightly and touched the spine of a book, running his finger over it. Wondering if Ian had been here and done the same at one point. The thought was so ridiculously out of place in his mind that he shoved it back into whatever dark fucking box it had come out of and dropped his hand. Only to bring it back up again when his eyes caught a familiar title— _Band of Brothers_. Ian’s favourite book. That and… yeah, _American Sniper_ was there too.

He felt fucking stupid again, but this time he found he couldn’t stop himself from pulling both books off the shelves and glancing them over. Ian’s two favourite books. Would reading them help him understand the guy better? Even if it didn’t, he figured they’d probably be entertaining. His new texting buddy had good taste in everything else, so it would stand to reason that these would be good.

His phone went off and he almost jumped out of his skin, his heart instantly kicking up a notch as he pulled it out and saw it was a text from Ian.

 

_Received at 6:44 pm_

_From: Officer Gump_

**moms back**

No punctuation, no clever remark, no capitals. Ian was upset. Barely even hesitating, Mickey jogged up to the counter and threw both books on it, texting Ian back.

 

_Sent at 6:45 pm_

_To: Officer Gump_

**Don’t you fucking call her ‘mom.’ Remember what you said?**

“$22.53 sir,” the lady at the cash said, her hands shaking as if she thought Mickey was going to pull a gun on her. But Mickey only muttered, “Christ, books are expensive,” and threw the money on the counter, waving off the receipt and change as he grabbed them and left, already pissed with ‘Monica.’

 

_Received at 6:48 pm_

_From: Officer Gump_

**Yeah, I remember. I have to let her baby me though so she doesn’t mess with my siblings.**

 

“Goddamn it,” Mickey mumbled in frustration, shaking his head. Again, Ian was taking it all on himself. Mickey had never wondered how much kicking life could give someone before they broke, but he wondered now.

 

_Sent at 6:50 pm_

_To: Officer Gump_

**She starts to get to you, you get the fuck outta there, you hear?**

_Received at 6:51 pm_

_From: Officer Gump_

**I can handle my mom, Mick. You’re the one who should be worrying about your dad.**

_Sent at 6:52 pm_

_To: Officer Gump_

**Don’t you fucking turn this around on me, Private Dipshit. If it’s too much, Get. Out. From what you’ve said, your family will understand.**

_Received at 6:53 pm_

_From: Officer Gump_

**You’re a good friend, man. I’ll bet you’ve bought me the best birthday present ever, haven’t you?**

 

Mickey cursed at the deflection but he couldn’t force a guy he’d texted for six days to talk to him when he didn’t want to. He glanced down at the books under his arm, hefting them in consideration. He’d just have to change that, then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mickey has a cru~sh~ (so does Ian)  
> There's probably going to be a lot of protective Gallaghers coming up because Gallaghers support their own (..unless it's season five...). Especially Carl. Carl is the family guard dog and my baby.


	5. Hypomania Or, the (Relative) Calm Before the Storm

**hy·po·ma·ni·a**

_noun: hypomania_

a mild form of mania, marked by elation and hyperactivity.

* * *

 

Monica had been messing with Ian’s head for two weeks, and his family was sick of it. In the first week, she had sat him in bed and tended to him 24/7, all of her energy going into acting caring and motherly. Although Ian had initially resisted, they’d all seen how his distance had slowly melted into a cautious kind of adoration. The second week, when she was still there and trying to drag Ian to every gay bar in town to find a man for him, even the cautiousness had melted and the adoration become plain.

“She’s fucking with him because he’s vulnerable after Rick,” Lip spat, running an angry hand through his hair with a disgusted shake of his head. Out of all of them, he was the angriest because he thought it was his fault that Ian was starting to depend on their mother being there. Ian and Monica had always shared a bond that was different than the other children’s bonds with their mother, maybe because Monica was full blood of Ian instead of a half-brother or half-sister, and Ian clutched onto that.

“Yeah but there’s not much we can do about it,” Fi sighed, crossing her arms to survey the family seated at the dinner table. “Did you see the look on his face when I told him he should get Monica to leave? Jesus, I didn’t know Ian _could_ get that angry.”

“Apparently he can. I stole his phone as a joke and he came after me with the baseball bat. He was so mad I thought he might actually hit me,” Debbie said, shrinking down in her chair in memory. It was true; the usually gentle redhead had been having violent outbursts lately, which he always apologized profusely for afterwards, claiming it was PTSD.

“I think something more is going on than PTSD,” Lip murmured, shoving Cheerios around in his bowl with a spoon. “He keeps having night terrors that he doesn’t remember in the morning. Shouldn’t be having ‘em at his age. That combined with his freaking out over a phone? I don’t like it.”

“Dude, the phone was because he was texting his boyfriend,” Carl said with a laugh. Everyone stared at him as he finished his breakfast and grabbed another piece of toast for the road. Carl loved his family, but in times like this they could be pretty thick. He knew exactly what he was going to do to help his older brother out, who cared what Fi or Lip said?

“Ian has a boyfriend?” Jimmy asked, pouring a cup of coffee for himself and rolling his eyes when Fiona stole it, raising her brows at Carl.

“Yeah. I jacked his phone while he was sleeping and read through the messages. You can tell they totally wanna bang, but Mic—but the other guy insists he’s straight. I’m gunna go talk to him.”

Before anyone could get a word in edgewise, Carl grabbed his coat and left, kicking the door shut with a loud bang of finality. The Gallaghers all looked at each other with frowns, and Lip was the only one to break the silence. “He wasn’t about to say Mickey, was he?”

***

Mickey Milkovich didn’t know it, but he’d had a secret admirer in the most sociopathic Gallagher. Mickey was a beat-first-ask-questions-later kind of guy, plus he had a sick arsenal, and Carl respected that. Mad props to the guy, who’d once beaten the shit outta some old perv sniffing around the playground at Carl’s school. All in all, if Carl had to pick a role model in the neighbourhood, he’d probably settle for Mick.

Which was why he’d been surprised to find out his goofy, self-disciplined brother who’d taught him how to shoot straight and make sure the safety was on was kind of dating Mickey. Until he realized that Ian and Mickey had no idea who the other was. Carl had known as soon as he’d seen Mandy Milkovich’s provocative smile, which would be good jerk off material for the next little while, and his first thought (after ‘I’d fuck Mandy’) was that Ian and Mickey would make a cool couple. Mickey could bring guns and knives to the table that even Ian couldn’t get access to, and Ian could teach Carl how to use them. It would be great. Ian and Mickey would be a power couple who kicked ass and made Carl look cool for being their younger brother.

There was only problem that stood in the way of that; Monica. Mickey was getting more and more upset with Ian as Ian tried to convince him that maybe this time Monica had changed. They were fighting about it now, and Carl figured their relationship must be a little rocky because Ian had stopped with the sex puns that obviously flustered Mickey, and Mickey had stopped surreptitiously trying to find out if Ian liked him that way (“Don’t tell me you’re fucking gay for me, Private Dipshit” “If you don’t want me to tell you, then I won’t say a word :)” “Fucking asshole”). If Carl wanted the coolest older brothers this side of South Side, he was going to have to get his mother to leave. Permanently.

He rapped his knuckles against Mickey’s door, stuffing his hands in his pockets against the chill of the morning. It was fucking cold this December, and Carl was really regretting not bringing his hat.

“Who the fuck’s at the door?” he heard some guy call, then a woman’s voice, heavily accented with an accent Carl guessed could be Russian, yelled, “I do not know. You get door. You make pregnant woman go to door if strange man is out there?”

“You fuck strange men all the time,” an annoyed voice said, getting closer, “I don’t see how this makes a fuckin’ difference.” The door opened and there stood Mickey Milkovich in the flesh, an irritated expression on his face that seemed almost as permanent as the FUCK tattoo across his knuckles. “It’s a kid. Hey, kid, you got the wrong idea. I don’t deal at my house.”

Carl glanced past Mickey to see a pretty, quite pregnant woman standing behind him, her hand resting on her stomach as she raised a brow at him. Carl gave her his most charming smile (which may have been more lecherous than charming, but whatever) and grinned up at Mickey. “She’s hot. The kid yours?”

“Yeah,” Mickey replied with a grimace, obviously not happy about it. Carl nodded and drew in a deep breath, thinking of all the texts between Mickey and Ian. Mickey hadn’t mentioned he’d gotten someone pregnant. “You love her?”

“I—fuck, I’m marrying her. So there’s that,” Mickey muttered, running his hand through his hair. That was a no. But he was marrying her? He’d gotten a lady pregnant and he was marrying her. He was fucking with Ian then. He was messing with the redhead because, what, he thought it was funny that Ian was gay? Was he going to make Ian fall in love and then laugh in his face? Carl let out a long sigh; he’d liked Mickey. He really had.

“What the fuck do you want, anyw—” Carl decided to attack before Mickey had the chance to realize what was going on, and the best time for that is when someone is in midsentence. He brought his foot up into Mickey’s crotch as hard as he could, and Mickey let out a hoarse yell, crouching over as his breath caught in his throat. When he bent, Carl grabbed his head and brought his knee up into Mickey’s face, satisfied with the amount of blood on his jeans when he brought his knee away.

“I learned that from my brother, Ian, and there’s more where that came from so you can fuck off with your wife and kid!” Carl yelled, already running down the street. “Don’t text him again!” Shit, his plan would’ve worked so well if Mickey hadn’t been an asshole who was toying with his brother. He glanced over his shoulder to make sure everything was good, and he was shocked to see Mickey chasing him. He wasn’t too fast—still probably hurting from the kick—but there was a determination on his face that made Carl nervous.

“Wait!” Mickey yelled, and Carl shook his head, speeding up even more.

“Go the fuck away, I’m telling Ian everything!” he yelled over his shoulder as his coat flapped behind him. Shit, they shouldn’t have confiscated his guns. Capping a Milkovich might’ve lead to problems in the future, but if Mickey caught him now he’d be in deep shit.

“No! Shit, you don’t get it!”

“What? I don’t get that you’re leading my brother on?”

“I’m not! I fuckin’ swear!”

“He lo—really likes you, asshole! And you’re not even gay! Leave him alone!”

“Fuck! It’s not like that!”

“You know he has a crush on you, right? If you don’t wanna be with him, stop making him like you!”

“Shit, I—I—do!”

Carl stopped suddenly, turning around suspiciously to see what kind of expression Mickey had on his face. It was panicky, nervous and kind of… open. The irritation was gone, and Carl was surprised to see that underneath all of that, there was fear. Because he was going to tell Ian? Woah. His brother had that much of an effect on Mickey? Carl’d had no idea Ian was the gay equivalent of Megan Fox. It was kinda weird to think about. He’d have to keep an eye on how other guys looked at Ian now.

“You’re… you’re not gunna tell him right now, are you?” Mickey panted as he reached Carl, bending over to draw in deep breaths, wiping blood from his nose. “I was planning on telling him but he’s fucked up over this thing with Monica so…” Mickey trailed off, the fear visible in his face as he searched Carl’s, completely ignoring the fact that Carl had just bitch kicked him and probably broke his nose. Cool.

“I dunno. I came to get your help—knew it was you because of the picture Mandy sent. But you’re like, getting married. That’s kinda a big deal.”

Carl played it flippant, despite the fact that his heart was pounding; he’d just gotten a really fucking good idea. Like Lip good. If he started getting these ideas all the time he could become a big time drug dealer and lead his own gang. Fuck yeah. But he needed to be a good actor, so he raised an eyebrow at Mickey and kept the rest of his face neutral.

“Terry’s making me. I wouldn’t do this to—I wouldn’t do it if he didn’t make me.” Mickey’s guard was coming back up again as he calmed down a little, realizing Carl wasn’t about to tell Ian _right this second_. He glanced around, straightening up and nodding to a guy passing by, his worried expression disappearing into one of steel. Man, he was good. Carl needed Mick to teach him how to do that shit.

“You love him?” Carl asked, wondering how long exactly it took to fall in love. He could’ve sworn he’d fallen for Bonnie in two days, so he thought three weeks of texting was a reasonable time. Mickey blanched at the question, his lips curling in disgust as if he were about to sneer he wasn’t a fag. “Because if you don’t, I’ll tell him you just wanna be friends. That you’re married and everything.”

The expression faded from Mickey’s face until all that was left was a kind of worn-out exhaustion. He ran a hand over his face, his mouth working as he tried to figure out what to say. Carl turned to walk away and Mickey grabbed his arm, pulling him back so close that no one else could hear a word Mickey breathed. “I don’t fuckin’ know, okay? I like him a lot, but I’ve never met the guy or heard his voice or anything. I don’t even know what he looks like. How can you know if you love someone when you’ve never even heard their voice?”

Carl pulled his arm away with a shrug, tugging the family phone out of his jacket. “If that’s all, I’ll just call him right now,” he said with a laugh, speed dialing Ian before Mickey could do anything. He bounced on his toes as he put it on speaker, eyes on Mickey’s face, which had gone even paler. With every ring, Mickey took another step back, his eyes wide on the phone as if it were a viper about to strike. Apparently he was scared that he might love Ian. Well, good.

“Yo, Carl. Sup?” his brother’s voice filtered through the phone, full of mischief and excitement, sounding young and carefree. Figures he’d know it was Carl; everyone else walked on eggshells around him. The look on Mickey’s face was priceless, way beyond worth going to the Milkovich house in the cold. His face had gone from pale to warm in seconds, cheek flushing and eyes widening, a small little gasping noise coming from his mouth. Carl’s grin grew bigger as he wondered if Mickey recognized the voice.

“I need to talk to you about some gay stuff. Where are you?” Carl asked, trying to hold back the bark of laughter at the look on Mickey’s face when he’d said ‘gay stuff.’ Mickey made slicing ‘I’m gunna kill you if you talk’ motions with his hands, but he didn’t say a word.

“Oh, uh, Boystown,” the voices in the background faded away; Ian must’ve been trying to get away from whoever he was with, “One of the bars there, Fairy Tale. They actually offered me a job! I don’t know if I’m gunna take it or not—I mean, I can’t exactly see myself as a go-go boy—but it’s cool that they like me.” Carl made a face; Boystown? Seriously? He tried to picture his well-groomed brother giving old dudes lap dances at some trashy bar and had to hold down vomit.

“What the fuck, man, seriously? You’re a lot fuckin’ better than that shithole,” Mickey growled. The entire conversation froze. It seemed like the entire world froze.

“Uh… someone there with you, Carl?” Ian asked hesitantly. Mickey pressed his lips together and Carl swore he saw a spasm of pain on his face, probably at the same thought Carl’d had about Boystown. Carl handed the phone over, despite the frantic shaking of Mickey’s head. They had a silent fight over it for a minute, Carl nodding vigorously and gesturing for Mick to talk while Mick shook his head and made gestures he shouldn’t make at fourteen year olds, before a voice from the phone forced them to come to a decision.

“Ian, darling, no need to be shy. You can come and play if you want, and not necessarily in that order.” The voice was sultry and masculine, carrying perfectly through the phone, and they heard what sounded like the rustling of clothes. Mickey snatched the phone, disgust written all over his features.

“Tell the perv to fuck off before I cut his balls off and get the fuck back home, Private Dipshit,” Mickey snarled. There was a long pause, then they heard murmurs and an angry exclamation from the other guy that quickly faded away. When almost all the background noise had faded away, Ian’s voice whispered into the phone, “Mickey?”

Mickey blinked a couple of times as if stunned that he was now talking directly to Ian. Hearing his voice. Talking live. Shit, Carl hoped he was there when the two met because if they got this gaga over each other just hearing the other’s voice, they’d go insane when they met.

“Yeah,” Mickey said gruffly, shuffling awkwardly with the softest look Carl had ever seen on a Milkovich face. “Yeah, it’s me. Fuck. I… fuck. How’s your day going, dipshit?”

“It’s… um. It’s great, you know? Really, really good. I’m… it’s nice to hear your voice.”

“Cut that shit out.”

“Mickey…”

“What?”

“Nothing. Haha… I just wanted to say your name, you know?”

“Seriously, fuck off with your mushy bullshit.”

“’Kay. How’s your day?”

“Fine.”

“Good.”

“…Yeah.”

Carl rolled his eyes at the way the two guys were behaving. He’d wanted an X-rated talk for kicks, but this wasn’t even PG. Liam probably knew more creative words than this.

“Ian, can you come or not? I really need to talk to you. I’ll bring Mickey,” Carl said, nodding at Mickey with a thumbs up.

“Fuck no, I’ve got shit to do,” Mickey said, his face betraying that he was too freaked out.

“Wait, wait, wait. How do you two even know each other? And Mick, your voice sounds kinda familiar.”

Mickey did a weird kind of shiver when Ian called him Mick, his face scrunching up as he looked away. Carl could’ve sworn he almost looked like he was going to cry. He remembered something about how Mick’s dad would beat him if he found out he was texting Ian. What would Mickey’s dad do if he found out Mickey was gay? Carl mentally added Terry Milkovich to his hit list; it would be risky, but he’d have to do it sooner or later to let Mickey be free.

“I read your texts with him and I figured it out. I’m kinda surprised you didn’t figure it, Ian. I mean, he’s—”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re texting buddies, not fucking boyfriends,” Mickey snapped, and then winced at the small, hurt intake of breath on the other end. Which quickly dissolved into a small laugh that didn’t even begin to cover up the silence that stretched underneath it. Carl kicked Mickey in the shin so hard Mickey almost fell to his knees. He let out a strangled yelp and Ian’s when Ian’s voice came through the phone he’d covered up all his pain and was all concern, asking if Mickey was okay.

Carl crouched down to Mickey’s ear, his voice managing to be both amused and angry at the same time, “Some old fuck tried to rape Ian the night Monica called and he’s been screwed up about it. Don’t be a bitch.” Mickey looked up, his eyes watering as he clutched his shin.

“Christ, that’s why? What the _fuck_ was his name and where do I bring my brothers?”

 _Well_ , Carl thought, _that’s more like it_. “If I knew that, he’d be dead already.”

“You find out, you call me, day or night. If anyone ever lays a hand on him—or any other unwelcome body part for that matter—I’ll—”

“Look, it’s great to hear my two favourite sociopaths get along about… whatever it is you’re talking about, killing or whatever… but if you really need to talk to me, where do you wanna meet? If I don’t get out of here soon, someone’s going to jump my bones.”

“Kash and Grab. Soon as you can. See ya, love ya, all that shit,” Carl said, ending the call before Ian could say anything else. He rolled his eyes at Mickey, stuffing the phone back in his pocket.

“Come on, shitface. We have work to do.”

***

Ian and Monica skipped to the Kash and Grab because Monica wanted to skip and Ian had no problems with that. He felt like he was walking on air, and every now and then an idea would pop into his head that was so fantastic he wanted to run into a café, steal a pen and napkin, and write it down. He was jumping out of his skin, but still not nearly as much as Monica; she kept asking him where the family kept the money so she could buy him a new car and he kept resisting. He was hyper, but he wasn’t stupid.

He’d already forgotten what exactly it was Carl had wanted to ask him; his thoughts had been filled with Mickey’s voice and the way it had sounded through the phone and the way he’d been protective and the way he’d said he wasn’t Ian’s boyfriend and the way he’d—

“Oof,” Ian muttered as he ran into a woman who seemed to materialize out of nowhere (had she been standing behind the pole waiting for him? Naw, couldn’t be). “Oh, uh, I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t see where I was going and—”

“You hit pregnant ladies all the time, Orange Boy?” a heavily accented voice asked as sharp, clear blue eyes stared at up him with an angry determination. Ian blinked a couple of times, noticing that she was indeed very, _very_ pregnant. Monica clung to his arm, peering over his shoulder at the woman with a look of way too much concern.

“No, no. I’m—Jesus, I didn’t notice you were pregnant. Are you okay?” Ian asked, as Monica lay her head on his shoulder. She was always touching him like this, little ways that most people’s mothers would so they wouldn’t really notice, but he noticed because she’d never been around. It was nice, comforting.

“Okay?” the woman growled, reaching down between her legs and pulling away fingers wet with blood. Ian’s mouth dropped and Monica let out a squeal, jumping back. “This look like okay to you, Orange Boy?”

“Oh no, Ian, what did you do?” Monica asked, horrified. Ian opened his mouth to say something but he honestly had no idea what to say. The first thought that had popped into his mind was that the red smear on her fingers didn’t even look like real blood; it looked like that too-dark red stuff from one of Carl’s fake blood capsules. He’d seen real blood in ROTC and it looked nothing like that. But then, he’d never seen a pregnant woman bleed from between her legs, so what did he know?

“Oh shit, we need to get you to a hospital,” Ian decided quickly, moving to stand beside her but scared to touch her in case he hurt her. She grabbed his arm huffily, her blue eyes narrowing.

“If baby is hurt, you pay for medical bill to fix, yes?” she asked coldly, her eyes ice as she glared up at him. He nodded quickly despite the fact that he had no idea where he’d get the money. Then, almost as if in afterthought, he leaned down and pressed gentle fingers into her stomach, murmuring, “Please be okay, baby. I didn’t mean to bump into your mom and you need to be okay so you can be as pretty as her when you come out.” He genuinely meant it, it wasn’t just because he didn’t want to pay the medical bills.

He caught the woman’s eyes and jaw softening as he straightened, and when she spoke next her voice held more warmth than cold. “I’m sure baby Yevgeny is okay. You would make good daddy, unlike father-to-be. He short dwarf man with small dick.”

That made Ian laugh as he placed his hand over hers, nodding to Monica that she could let them go the hospital alone. She nodded back, her eyes shimmering with a pride that warmed Ian’s heart.

“I’m Svetlana. And you, Orange Boy?” the woman—Svetlana—asked, pointedly ignoring Monica for whatever reason.

“Ian Gallagher. It’s nice to meet you, although I wish it wasn’t in circumstances like this.”

“Do not worry, Yevgeny will surely be fine. Tell me about you. I believe you and I could become friends.”

***

Carl hid behind Mickey’s car with Mickey while Svetlana managed to get Ian away from Monica. He’d seen a strange expression on Ian’s face at the blood and been worried, but luckily his brother didn’t know enough about blood to know what pregnant blood looked like. Speaking of pregnant blood, Ian seemed like the kind of guy who’d wanna have kids, and Carl had seen gay guys with kids before. How did that even work? Who would be the mom? He looked at Mickey in consideration.

Mickey caught the look and snapped, “What?” He’d been jittery since they’d come up with this plan, and now he completely refused to look at Ian. Didn’t he wanna know what his more-or-less lover looked like? Carl would’ve wanted to know. He’d want his boyfriend to be a total babe. But Mickey was terrified to see what Ian looked like, despite the fact that he’d mentioned Ian’s voice sounded familiar. Duh. Mickey must’ve met Ian at the Kash and Grab sometime.

“You ready to do this or are you going to keep fucking off to lala land?” Mickey whispered, cocking his gun back and checking the street again for cops. Monica was watching Ian go with a nutjob look on her face that said she didn’t really want him to leave. Carl shivered, remembering when she’d looked at him like that. It was totally manipulative.

“Let’s do this,” Carl said, cocking his own gun and stepping out from around the car as Ian disappeared around the side of a building. Mickey’s brothers had cleared the street so now it was only them and Monica. She was facing away from them, and it wasn’t until they got close enough for her to hear the gun safeties snapping off that she turned around.

“Carl?” she asked softly, a pleasantly surprised grin lighting up her face. “Carl! Baby, I’m so happy to see—”

“Shut up, Monica,” Carl said tonelessly, lifting his gun to level it at her. “You need to leave.”

He felt Mickey’s eyes on him but he didn’t look away from his mother, who looked as if she couldn’t decide whether she wanted to laugh or cry at her second youngest kid pointing a gun at her.

“What are you doing, Carl? It’s me. It’s your mother. Why would you point a gun at me?”

The deranged laugh she uttered made Carl wince and bring his other hand up to rest on the grip of the gun. It seemed a hell of a lot colder than usual, pointing it at Monica.

“Leave or I’ll shoot you,” Carl said, his voice only wavering a bit. Mickey wisely said nothing, he only watched the way Monica’s hands fluttered around in confusion, the way her mouth struggled between a laugh and a scream of rage. She shook her head finally, stepping closer.

“Carl, put the gun down. We’re a family. I know you won’t—”

 _BANG_.

The huge sound and kick made Carl jump as he fired into the sidewalk just beside Monica. She let out a scream, her hand going over her heart, and the look she gave Carl made him blink a few times to clear his eyes.

“You are _not_ part of our family. You destroyed our family and you destroyed Frank and _now you’re destroying Ian_! Go away, Monica! We need Fi and Lip and Ian, and you’re not helping at all. You’re making it all worse! Go the _fuck_ away! Leave!”

“Baby—”

“Just fucking go, lady. Can’t you see you’re hurting your kids? If you give a single fuck about them, you’ll do what’s best and go,” Mickey said, resting a light hand on Carl’s back, both of them pretending they didn’t notice the tremoring running through Carl’s body.

“I—”

“Not another word,” Carl muttered, taking one hand away to wipe at his eyes. “Please.”

He didn’t want to shoot his mother. There were a lot of people he could shoot easily and have no problem doing it, not even a drop of guilt, but Monica wasn’t one of those people. He could still remember how she’d bought him the guns, how she’d been so happy looking after him, how she’d been gentle and motherly. It wasn’t even all her fault; she was sick. But she kept refusing to take her pills and if she didn’t leave, things would go to shit. Carl couldn’t let his family be destroyed, and for that reason he’d shoot his own mother if worse came to worse.

Monica must have seen something of that in him, because her fluttering hands slowly lowered and she let out a long sigh. She turned towards the car she’d been using to drive her and Ian around and opened the door. Just like that. Carl had half wanted her to protest, to say she’d rather die than leave her kids and that he should go ahead and shoot her. But that wasn’t Monica. Monica only gave a shit until she didn’t.

Carl heard Mickey let out a long, tense exhale beside him, but it was cut off in the middle when Monica turned around and spoke one last time.

“Ian’s changing. He’s… he’s like me. Neither of you understand, and one of these days he’s going to need _me_. People like you don’t get people like us. You’ll try to fix him and you’ll only hurt yourselves and him.”

Before either Carl or Mickey could respond, Monica slammed the car door and peeled away with a loud squeal of tires, hopefully to never come back. Carl slumped, the gun dropping from his numbed hand. After he’d put the safety back on, the way Ian had taught him too.

“The fuck did she mean, Ian’s like her?” Mickey asked, as he tucked his own gun away, his voice full of a strange sort of worry. Carl kicked a pebble across the road, watching as it tumbled over and over and then disappeared under the tires of a car. Crushed under too much weight.

“Don’t try to understand. Just hope to God she’s fucking wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Never fear, Mick and Ian meet next chapter. Since things are going to start going downhill soon, the next chapter is going to be so sweet it'll make sugar taste sour, and it'll be the fluffiest, most cliched meeting on the face of the earth. There will be eye rolling and you will hate me forever for how cliche it will be but I do not care. I need fluff before diving into angst. ;3


	6. Give It Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so dead, I needed to write this chapter. Now I have. Now I can go work my fourteen days straight in peace and not worry about having to get this out.

When Ian came home from the hospital visit with Svetlana (Yev was fine, Svetlana was now a good friend who would text him when Yev came) he was shocked and beyond disappointed to find Monica gone. The entire family was sitting around the table glaring at Carl, who was shrugging with a proud smirk on his face.

“What’s up?” Ian asked, searching their faces. It seemed they’d all come to a collective decision about something, and Fi was the one who spoke.

“Monica left.”

It hurt. It hurt so much his breath hitched in his throat and he paused for so long that Lip came over and had to tell him to breathe. “You okay, man?” Lip asked, his mouth drawn into a grimace. Ian nodded numbly, smiling so blankly that Fi set down the bills she was leafing through and came over to give him a hug. Deb, Carl and Liam joined her and soon the entire family was hugging him; they’d all been abandoned and they all knew what it was like to go from her favourite to a piece of trash she’d thrown away.

“Not your fault, kiddo,” Fi murmured into his shoulder, and Ian nodded, a small smile on his face. It hurt like a bitch but he had his entire family, and that was enough. He didn’t need Monica, and they didn’t need Monica. They needed each other. His smile grew wider at that; they needed him to smile too. Even though he’d been closest to her this time, her inevitable explosion would stick shards into all of them.

“You guys all okay, too?” Ian asked, and then everyone started speaking at once, assuring him that they were if he was, and then the discussion got louder and louder until it dissolved into laughter all around, Jimmy shaking his head with a grin as they broke apart from the hug and he reached up to ruffle Ian’s hair. It was great. Better than great, Ian told himself as they all sat down for supper. No more Monica to worry about was a good thing. No one needed someone that unstable in their life.

***

After supper, Carl told Ian he could go ahead and call Mickey in their room, and Carl would take care of Liam. Damn, the kid was good at reading him; he wanted to call Mick. There was so much he needed to say after three weeks of their relationship getting to be more… well, just more. But the first thing he needed to do was apologize, because he’d been prickly about Monica.

His heart pounded as he brought up Mick’s contact info. They hadn’t spoken or even texted since they’d first heard each other’s voices. The first time he hadn’t even known he’d be calling Mick, but now he knew and it was nerve-racking. He debated for the hundredth time whether or not to ask Carl about his texting buddy, but Mick hadn’t seemed too keen on it so it felt like it would be a betrayal. So he just did what his gut told him; he dialled before he could change his mind.

It took five rings and Ian was beginning to think Mick didn’t want to talk to him when an annoyed voice answered with a harsh, “What?”

“Um, hi, Mick,” Ian said, suddenly feeling awkward. “Sorry, I just—”

“Oh fuck, Ian, uh… hi. Sorry, I was expecting another call and… yeah, fuck, sorry. How are you?”

“I’m…” Ian paused, suddenly feeling weighed down; it was too hard to lie with his voice. “…not so good. Monica left and I’m realizing how much of an asshole I’ve been to you lately. I wanted to call and apologize—”

“No.”

“What?”

“Don’t fuckin’ apologize, man. Not your fault.”

“I still feel like I need to—”

“No. I’m the one who should be sorry. What I said earlier about us just being texting buddies, was uh…”

“…Haha, no problem. That’s all we are, anyway.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Just, fuckin’, like, stop shoving your feelings back.”

“Mick, come on, man, I’m only being serious.”

“Don’t.”

“…If we aren’t just that, what are we?”

“I dunno. Do we have to analyze every little fuckin’ thing? Can’t we just not classify this shit? Christ, I don’t wanna be tied down by anything or whatever.”

“’Kay. I’m kind of tired so I think I’m going to go to bed.”

“Jesus, Ian. Wait a second. That came out wrong.”

“No, Mick. It’s cool, really. I’m glad to be whatever you want me to be. Friend, acquaintance, texting buddy… I’m serious, whatever you need, I’m it. I like you. I want to be there for you.”

“Fuck. I can’t—goddammit! I’m sorry. Christ, I’m sorry, you gotta believe me. But I think it might be better for us to break whatever this is off. I can’t be what you want. I wish I could just—shit. _Fuck_!”

Ian took the phone away from his ear and looked at it for a second, feeling kind of distant and tired. He suddenly felt as if all the energy he’d spent for the past week with Monica was catching up to him. And his legs were like lead so he couldn’t run. Rick, Monica, Mickey… he closed his eyes. It was all looming over him, threatening to come crashing down. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could put it off. _Just a little while longer_ , he begged whoever was listening.

“One week. I’ll wait for you at the L for as long as it takes. I hope you show because it’s supposed to be cold that night and I’m not a fan of freezing my balls off on my birthday.”

He hung up without waiting for an answer, then jumped into bed despite the fact that it was hours before he usually slept.

***

ONE WEEK LATER—

Mickey hadn’t heard from Ian in a week. Well, it wasn’t like he’d texted Ian either, so that was fair enough. But he felt sort of betrayed; Ian was always the one to text back after they fought over Monica. He was one of those stupid, try-too-hard kind of guys who went after relationships with friends and family with everything he had. But not this one, apparently. Mickey buried his face in his hands with a wince; he’d been so grumpy and harsh with everyone the past week that even Terry hadn’t bothered him. Svetlana was beyond angry that he’d hurt Ian, she kept telling him he needed to get his man back and not be a pussy. At least she wasn’t upset he was gay.

Mickey rolled over and frowned at his clock. 6:46 pm. If he was going to meet Ian, he’d have to leave now. But he wasn’t, because he couldn’t meet up with this guy who lived in his head despite the fact that they’d never met. They could never be more, because Mickey couldn’t let himself be gay. He hoped with all his being that Ian knew that.

***

Ian glanced up at the grimy clock hanging above the bench, rubbing his hands over his jacket sleeves. 7:00 pm. Mickey could be here at any minute. He hoped Mickey came soon; he’d already been here for half an hour and his cheeks were flushed bright with the cold. People came and went, sometimes sitting beside him and striking up conversation, some not. He told whoever listened that he’d come to meet the love of his life, and he smiled so huge they couldn’t help but smile back. Those smiles warmed him with hope as he stamped his feet, watching his breath frost into the air and make little clouds.

***

7:32 pm. There. Half an hour past, and Mickey was still in bed. Ian would get the message; he’d be leaving just about now. Definitely. Mickey closed his eyes, ignoring the ugly newspaper-wrapped package that taunted him from his dresser. Shit, why had he ever listened to the idiot and got a present? Because he’d wanted to see the kid’s dumb face when he saw the lame ass thing Mickey had bought? _Stupid, Milkovich. You were never planning on meeting him_.

_I’ll wait for you at the L for as long as it takes_. Fuck off. You won’t.

***

8:59 pm. It was so cold. Ian was hunched over, and his shivers had turned into shudders. He couldn’t feel his feet through his shoes anymore; it was too cold for his ratty old sneakers. Well, at least the shudders were better than no shivering. Carl had called and Ian had told him things were cool. He was with Mick. He didn’t need his family worrying; they’d thrown him the best birthday ever and gotten him mitts that kept his hands warmish even in this weather. He smiled, his lids half-closed against the cold that was freezing the moisture in his eyes to the tips of his lashes. Damn, it was cold. _Hurry up, Mick_.

***

9:24 pm. Mickey’d had a long day. Usually on long days, he could collapse into bed at eight and be asleep in seconds. But right now, he couldn’t sleep. Stupid fucking Ian. He wished Ian would text and ask him if he were going to wish him a happy birthday or not. Or even text him and call him an asshole for not showing. But there was nothing, and Mickey kept rolling over, trying to fall asleep and forget about the laughing voice on the other end of the phone line.

***

10:44 pm. Ian had drawn his knees up to his chest and hugged them close. He couldn’t feel his thighs anymore and he was sure his cheeks were as red as his hair. “Are you alright, my boy?” an old lady asked, coming to sit beside him. He told her he was fantastic, that he was actually waiting for the love of his life who would most definitely be here soon. She smiled at that and handed him her tea to drink so he could keep warm while he waited. They chatted for a bit and he told her about how he’d met Mickey, how he thought it might be fate. He didn’t tell her Mick was nearly four hours late. She didn’t ask. The bus showed up at eleven and she got on to go home to her husband for Christmas. Ian wished he were at home with Carl and Lip and Deb and Fi and Jimmy and Liam and Mickey and Svetlana and Mandy and Yev, standing around the shitty Christmas tree while a tiny fire heated the room.

***

12:22 pm. Fuck. Mickey still couldn’t sleep. He rolled this way and that, but it seemed he couldn’t get comfortable no matter what he did. _I’ll wait for you at the L for as long as it takes._ No, no, no. He’d left hours ago. There was no way, no fucking way. Except Ian was too loyal and too caring and too kind and too fucking stupidly naïve and Mickey was so fucking worried his heart felt like it would tear out of his chest. He grabbed his phone, glaring at it. All this phone’s fault. Fuck this phone.

He lunged across the room, grabbing the ugly package, some warmish clothes, an extra scarf and boots. Fucking Ian. _Fucking_ Ian, he’d _better_ not still be there.

***

Ian was so tired he couldn’t raise his head to see the time, but he guessed it was somewhere around one. He’d stopped shivering and now he just felt bone-tired. Like it was time to give up. But there was something nagging him, something funny. That movie, _Mickey Blue Eyes_ , with Hugh Grant. Mickey Blue Eyes. Mickey. Blue Eyes. What, like Blue Eyes Milkovich? Smiling while he was texting. _You fucking little asshole_. Mickey. _Seriously, fuck off with your mushy bullshit_. Mickey Blue Eyes. The cute little Milkovich girl in his class. What was her name? Mandy. _Mickey’s sister Mandy_. **Mickey Milkovich**. Oh.

Ian started laughing a little; how did he not realize? How the fuck… did he not… And then he pressed his face into his knees and started crying.

***

Mickey ran as fast as he could, the only good clothes he owned sticking to him from the sweat. It was so cold tonight. No one would be crazy enough to wait for six hours in this cold, right? He neared the L, and his heart felt like it was going to burst out of his chest. Nope, he’d get there and it would be empty. It was just after Christmas and everyone was with their families, sleeping in warm beds with full stomachs. Mickey was the only idiot out here running around in this cold. He slowed as he reached the platforms, his eyes frantically searching the benches as a train screamed past. Thank God. He was right. Ian hadn’t been stupid enough to…

The train passed. And there, sitting on the bench on the opposite side, was the breathtaking Firecrotch from the Kash and Grab. Gallagher. A Gallagher brother. The kid who had come to his house… he’d been a Gallagher. The voice… and the hickeys and wounds that looked like they’d come from a rape attempt… Gallagher. **Ian Gallagher**. Holy fuck. No. Nonono, because Ian was crying into his knees like a little fucking kid in this cold.

“Gallagher!” Mickey yelled, and he was making his way over to the other side, the only thought in his mind being _fuckfuckfuck, why didn’t I come at seven, why didn’t I fucking come, I knew he’d wait, this little shit_.

Ian looked up and he was even more breathtaking than he’d been that day. His face was free of bruises and cuts, and flushed all around his freckles with the cold. His eyelashes were frosted with ice from his tears, surrounding shimmering blue-green eyes that were all Mickey had ever fucking needed to look at. His firey hair was thrown around messily as if he’d run his hands through it a hundred times, and _Christ_ , he was so beautiful. He was the most beautiful thing Mickey had ever seen, and he was waiting for the one stupid fucking guy who’d actually run out here in the cold.

“Mick,” Ian said, and though his voice was hoarse, it was so full of joy that Mickey almost cried. “This is the part where you ask if you’re late. And I say no,” Ian’s voice broke as he grinned tearfully, “you’re right on time.”

“Dammit, Private Dipshit,” Mickey rasped, tears filling his eyes. “I told you not to wait. I told you I wouldn’t come you _fucking_ idiot.”

“And yet,” Ian whispered, “here you are.”

Mickey couldn’t handle answering that, and his body moved of his own accord, taking the extra scarf out of his pocket as he knelt down until he was eye height with Ian and wrapped it around the freezing boy’s slender neck. “You need to get warmed up. A hotel sound okay?”

Ian reached out and touched Mickey’s face softly with gloved fingers, his eyes soft and full of humour even in this stupid fucking situation. “Has anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful eyes in all of South Side?” he asked, and Mickey had to physically restrain himself from kissing Ian full on the mouth right there where anyone could see them.

“No, and you’ve spent too long out here to make any judgements. Come on, Gallagher, hotel time. Stand up.”

Ian frowned down at his legs before letting out a sigh and laughing shakily. “I can’t.”

“What?”

“My legs are frozen. They’re too numb to walk.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, Gallagher. You’re fucked up, you know that?”

“Yeah. I knew I was fucked the moment you started sounding clever.”

Mickey blinked, taken aback; people usually weren’t as forward in real life as they were in texts, but Ian was _exactly_ like he’d been in the texts. Shit. That was exceptionally troublesome for Mickey’s heart.

“Whatever. I’ll carry you. Get on my back and don’t make any fucking smart comments, got that?” Mickey knelt down and offered Ian his back. He felt surprisingly strong, muscular arms wrap around his shoulders, followed by the rest of a lean, toned body underneath a threadbare coat on his back. He stood up, wrapping his arms back around long legs and wincing at how cold the body on his back was. It might’ve been awkward if it didn’t feel like he was carrying a corpse.

“Woah,” he heard Ian murmur right beside his ear. So much for not being awkward. “I feel so close to the ground right now. You’re pretty short aren’t you?”

“Shut the fuck up, you want me to carry you or not?” Mickey asked, annoyed as he realized there certainly was a height difference. Ian had to hitch his legs up around the back of Mickey’s waist so his feet wouldn’t drag on the ground. Mickey started walking, still stewing about it, when he felt something poking him in the back. He froze, his face heating up as he choked on his words, “Is that—are you—what the—”

“Oh, sorry, it’s your present,” Ian said with a laugh. Mickey blinked, still unable to move. He didn’t mean…? “A watch, Mick. It’s a watch in a jeweler’s box, get your mind out of the gutter. I’m so cold I can’t feel below my waist anyway.”

Mickey dipped his head to hide an angry flush, quickly searching his mind to find something to change the subject. “A watch, huh?”

“Yeah,” Ian’s voice breathed in his ear shyly. “I guess since I’ve already ruined the surprise… Um, remember how you said you thought Speirs from Band of Brothers was a badass?” Mickey nodded curiously. “Well, I thought so too. A few years back, when I was obsessed with the show, I met up with this guy who knew a cousin of Speirs’. The cousin was selling off some old stuff of his and there was this really cool watch… So yeah. This watch is Ronald Speirs’.”

Mickey almost dropped Ian; he’d put that much thought into it? He’d literally gotten Mickey a sentimental gift?

“A few years ago? If you got it for yourself, why’re you giving it to me?” Mickey asked, careful to keep a neutral tone.

“I’m leaving for West Point and then the military in a few months. I don’t want to bring it with me to get ruined but I don’t want it to gather dust here. I was going to give it to Lip but… really, you’re the only one who gets it.”

Who _gets it_. Who understood Ian and exactly what he meant because he somehow felt he knew the ginger Gallagher all the way to the marrow of his bones. He shook his head slightly, hefting Ian higher on his back and feeling relief as the redhead started shivering. Better than not shivering in this weather.

“So what’d you get me, Mickey Mouse?”

“Call me that one more time and I’ll rip your tongue outta your head,” Mickey said, but it didn’t sound threatening so much as a reflex. Mickey Mouse. Mick had to bite his cheek to hold in an odd little smile at the nickname.

“There was some fucking nerd herd gathered a ways down the road. Author of Fight Club was there and so was Norton so I… yeah.”

“No. Fucking. Way. Let me get this straight, bear with me, man. You went to a Comic-Con—the only one with Norton and Palahniuk lately was a hundred miles away—stood in some lines for who knows how long, and got me a signed copy of Fight Club from Palahniuk and Norton? You’re fucking joking. No way.”

Mickey scowled. “Lines aren’t long if you get there early,” he muttered, but he felt a warm glow in his chest at how thrilled Ian was with his present.

“Mick, you didn’t, holy shit, my present feels like crap now,” Ian breathed, and Mickey felt him press his face into Mickey’s shoulder.

“Ronald. Fucking. Speirs. All I’m gunna say, Gallagher,” Mickey said, but the glee in his voice said so much more and Ian let out a happy hum. They fell silent for a while as Mick passed a couple of seedy looking hotels.

“You smell good,” Ian whispered so low Mickey figured it probably wasn’t meant for him to hear. He flushed bright red anyway; he’d been trying not to notice the clean, crisp piney smell coming from his back but if it was nearly impossible before, now it was completely impossible. Ian’s body had been warming up slowly but surely and now Mick really needed to get that hotel or he’d have a problem.

He finally chose one that looked middle-class and walked in, ignoring the weird looks the front desk girls gave him as he continued holding Ian with one hand and slapped a credit card onto the counter with the other. They didn’t say anything though, they only gave him the key card to a room with a king bed and let him be on his way. He carried Ian all the way to the fourth floor, down the hall, into the room, dumped him on the bed.

Ian had been silent the whole time and now he finally understood why; the ginger was sound asleep, his brow wrinkled in what looked like stress and his body shuddering with the cold that had seeped into it during the six hours he’d waited for Mickey. Mickey uttered a long string of curses again as he began stripping the tall, gorgeous Gallagher. He stripped off coat, shoes, mitts, sweater and jeans, then decided a muscle shirt and boxers were quite enough to sleep in, thank you very much.

After a minute of awkwardly shuffling around the room, wondering if he should leave of not, Ian’s eyes opened briefly and he seemed to look somewhere over Mickey’s head. “Cold,” he muttered, shivering harder, his lips blue. Mickey didn’t know how long it took to get hypothermia, but he figured it was a hell of a lot less than six hours. Fuck it.

He stripped to his own boxers as Ian fell back into slumber, whimpering slightly under the covers Mickey had put over him. He only hesitated a second longer before climbing into the bed and gingerly reaching out to wrap his arms around Ian. Fuckin’ cold. Not just the fingers and toes but the kid’s whole body. Mickey shook his head angrily, pulling Ian closer under the idiot was nestled into his chest, his breath cold against the hollow of Mickey’s neck. It was kind of nice. It was kind of too nice, and Mickey’s head felt like it was being scrambled while someone punched him repeatedly in the heart. Fuck. He couldn’t deny it any longer. Ian’s arms came up to wrap around Mickey’s neck and his breathing grew easier, the stress lines in his forehead easing.

Mickey was sleeping in bed with someone in his arms and not fucking them. That was bad. He was fucked, because that meant he _like_ -liked this huge-hearted red beauty. He should cut it off again, wake Ian up and say he was leaving, the room was taken care of. But he couldn’t this time. Because his face was in Ian’s hair and their limbs were tangling together and their skin was pressed together and their scents mingled. It wasn’t sex; it was _intimacy_. And Mickey was fucking _terrified_. Terrified to stay. Even more terrified to leave.

He pressed the lightest of kisses into Ian’s hair, feeling like he was committing the world’s greatest sin. Then he did it again. And again. Ian let out a low, contented sound in his throat and Mickey was done with denial. He gave up. He lov—liked Ian and he would protect him no matter what it took.

* * *

Motivational Pic of the Day:

Ladies and gents, I give you Ronald Speirs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next: Ian and Mick kinda have a relationship, Ian still denies there's something wrong even while his moods get more dangerous


	7. Low Blows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: ehh, a blowjob  
> I haven't done smut in a while so sorry if it's shit

Ian felt hazy when he woke up, and for a few seconds he panicked, not quite sure where he was. He was halfway out of bed, his eyes wide and his breathing speeding up, when a warm hand on his shoulder made him jump.

“Relax, fuck. It’s me. It’s Mickey. I brought you to this hotel last night, remember?”

Ian blinked into blue eyes and slowly relaxed under the gentle, insistent look. Yeah, that’s right. He’d figured it out; Mickey was the Blue Eyed Milkovich brother who was supposed to be a homophobic fag beater. Yet he’d run over to Ian and almost cried, then looked at him with a gaze so soft Ian felt like something inside of him was breaking. He’d said he was going to meet the love of his life, but it was only looking into Mickey’s eyes last night that he realized he was well and truly in love. He lay back against the headboard, not bothering to fight the smile that found its way to his lips.

“Yeah, I remember,” he murmured, reaching up to press his fingers against Mickey’s face. Mick looked so worried Ian wanted to kidnap him and hide away with him. Was he worried because his dad might find out he’d spent the night with Ian? It wasn’t like they’d done anything but…

“Do you remember everything?” Mickey asked, setting a tray of what looked like fast food breakfast burritos on Ian’s lap. Ian grinned appreciatively; he was starving, and he dug into the food while he shrugged, not bothering to wait until his food was swallowed before he spoke.

“Yeah, you were hours late but it was cool because you ran like some dude from a romantic chick flick. I’d never been so happy to see anyone in my entire life. Then you carried me here and we talked about our presents and sometime on the way in I fell asleep. Sound about right?”

Mickey frowned, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he watched Ian inhale the food. “That’s it? You don’t remember… waking up?”

Ian shook his head, his mouth too full to talk, and raised a quizzical brow.

“You woke up around four in the morning. Screaming. Crying. Fuck, I had to hold you down so you wouldn’t hurt yourself. You kept sayin’ like, everyone was leaving? You were so freaked it took me an hour to calm you down.”

Ian choked on his breakfast so violently Mickey had to give him a few rough swats on the back. For an instant, his mind went back to something Lip had mentioned; _You’ve been having night terrors, man, and they’re not normal for your age. You know who else had them at your age? Monica._ Ian shook the thought out of his head; he wasn’t Monica. He had PTSD and it was the most annoying thing in the world because he was a _Gallagher_ and the older three Gallaghers didn’t need taking care of. They could hold their own against anything, mental fuck up or not.

“Sorry,” Ian muttered because that was all he could think to say.

“There you go with that sorry shit again. I told you, don’t. It makes me fuckin’ mad.”

Ian set his tray aside and looked up at Mick, really looked. He’d noticed a shitload of stuff about the Milkovich brother before, but he’d never seen that softness. And he’d never seen the guy take a shower, which it seemed like he’d done while Ian was out. Shit, how long had he slept anyway? He glanced at the clock and choked on air; it was one in the afternoon. Mickey noticed his look and nodded with a frown.

“Yeah. You slept in late again. You do this shit a lot?”

“Not really. I probably caught a bout of hypothermia or something, you know, since I was waiting for you for six hours.”

He had meant it teasingly but he internally slapped himself when he saw the guilt on Mickey’s face. He kicked the covers off and got out of bed, reaching down to cup Mickey’s face in his hands and force the shorter guy to look up at him. He smiled as happily as he could. “I’m not complaining. Honestly. I’m really, really happy you even bothered to show.”

Mickey reached up and wrapped smaller, rougher hands around Ian’s fingers, hesitating as if deciding what he was going to do.

“We’re alone. You don’t have to hide,” Ian whispered, leaning even closer to Mickey. He shoved the tiredness that nagged him away and found a surprisingly intense desire to make Mickey’s his then and there. Throw him on the bed and just… Mickey must’ve noticed his expression, and he seemed like he wanted it too, but after leaning even closer, he suddenly jerked away.

“I’m getting married,” he said loudly, avoiding Ian’s eyes, looking like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die.

Ian felt his heart drop and his mouth go dry. He’d expected that if Mickey had shown up, they would’ve declared their love for each other and gone off happily into the sunset. He had a hazy kind of memory of Mickey pressing kisses into his head and touching him gently on his back and arms and face, and he’d thought that was _it_. That when he woke up, him and Mickey could… fuck, he didn’t know, go beat the shit out of Terry and take Mandy and go home or something. This wasn’t anything like his fantasy. Which, realistically, being a Gallagher, he should’ve expected. His genes were cursed with tragedy and angst.

“Who is he?” Ian whispered, trying to smile a congratulations. Well, Mick had said they were just texting buddies, right? Maybe he’d come because he’d wanted to be a friend to Ian.

“Fuck, it’s not a ‘he.’ It’s some whore my dad picked out because he thinks the kid she’s pregnant with is mine. Which it sure as fuck ain’t, because I’ve never touched the bitch.” At the end of the sentence Mickey looked up at Ian timidly, as if scared to see his reaction. Ian wondered what kind of face he was wearing, because he sure as hell had no idea how to feel about that. Relieved that Mickey didn’t have feelings for someone else. Angry that fucking Terry Milkovich was going to ruin Mickey’s life and make him into one of those married pricks who hid who they were until they exploded.

“Don’t go through with it then. We’ll figure something out,” Ian pleaded, and Mickey stood up, brushing Ian’s hands off and walking a couple of steps past Ian, looking like he’d swallowed a mouthful of acid.

“I can’t. You don’t know what he’s like—he’d kill me. I wish it wasn’t fucking like this, but we can still be…”

Mickey suddenly looked lost, as if he had no idea what he was going to end the sentence with. Ian felt a protective instinct rise inside him at the look of utter hopelessness on Mickey’s face and stepped forward to kiss him. But Mickey brought his hand up, shoving Ian back roughly so Ian was left wondering what the fuck they were. Mickey seemed too terrified to love him, but the look on his face said he was already halfway in love.

“Fuck, Gallagher, this isn’t a chick flick. We’re not gunna kiss and the whole world will be better. You and I are… really good friends. If we’re more the shit in my life will only fuck up yours. So we’ll be really good friends.” Mickey hesitated, before adding quietly. “Who fuck.”

That pissed Ian off. That really pissed him the fuck off. Friends who fuck? Karen and Lip had been ‘friends who fuck’ and that had ended with Karen running off with some Jody guy and breaking Lip’s heart. It was like a relationship minus the commitment. Mutual pleasure and intimacy but ignoring all the usual relationship shit that came with it. Fuck that. But if Ian said all that out loud, he might lose Mickey again, so instead he closed the space between them and grabbed a fistful of Mickey’s shirt.

“That all you want, Milkovich? You want my cock inside you? You want me to hit that sweet spot over and over until you’re a screaming mess, begging me to come?”

He watched Mickey the expressions on Mickey’s face conflict; nervousness, arousal, sadness, acceptance, stubbornness. Lots of sadness. Lots of acceptance that’s that all they could be; good friends who fucked. Yeah, right. Ian would fuck that concept upside down and out of Mickey’s head.

“Ian…” Mickey muttered, looking away, shaking his head.

Ian leaned closer, put his mouth right beside Mickey’s ear, whispered, “Then let’s _fuck_. I’ll fuck you nice and rough, Mick, and it’ll be so _good_.” He felt a shiver run through the shorter guy and he poked his tongue out, tracing the delicate shell of Mickey’s ear and shoving him. Shoving him back until he hit the wall. Mickey looked like he wanted to say something more but Ian shut the conversation up by dropping to his knees.

“What the fuck? We’re not doing blowjobs, Gallagher, that’s way too fucking—ah—shit—” Mickey stopped talking when Ian yanked his pants and boxers down in one rough jerk and raised an eyebrow from between Mickey’s legs. He’d been watching Ian but now he looked away, his face flushing brightly at how hard he already was.

“You don’t wanna be in my mouth, Mick?” Ian asked teasingly, running his hands up the back of Mickey’s legs until they cupped Mickey’s ass.

“Christ, Gallagher, you need to stop looking at me like tha—” he was cut off by a loud sort of whimper when Ian leaned forward and licked the underside of his cock, tracing a vein that was already beginning to pulse.

“Don’t call me Gallagher when we’re fucking, Mi~ckey~” Ian teased lightly before taking half of Mickey’s cock into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the sensitive tip. He wasn’t sure whether the moan that slipped through Mickey’s lips was from Ian using his name, the feel of Ian’s tongue, or both. Either way, Ian liked the sound and he pulled Mickey closer, taking more of him in as Mickey’s hands searched for something to grab onto. One of them grabbed the hard back of a chair and the other found its way wound in Ian’s hair.

Ian leaned back, spitting into his palm and using it instead of his mouth so he could speak.

“I want you to look at me, Mickey. I want you to look at me while I’m sucking your cock. And I want you to say my fucking name.”

Then he leaned forward and took Mickey in his mouth again, his saliva soaked hand snaking around to Mickey’s ass as he pressed one finger into the hot, tight space. There was a sharp intake of breath and he heard another shuddering moan, but Mickey still wouldn’t look at him. He looked up to see Mickey’s tears rimmed red with pleasure, his mouth pressed tightly together to hold in any more sounds as he focused on the bed in front of him. Ian would’ve shaken his head if he hadn’t been preoccupied. As it was, he added another finger in so suddenly and roughly that Mickey jumped and a cry escaped his sealed lips.

“Jesus fuck, Gallagher,” he yelped, and then his eyes widened because he was looking down at Ian, who was rubbing his cock against the hot, moist inside of his cheek and smiling sassily. Ian’s smile grew even more as he felt Mickey’s cock twitch and the salty taste of precum fell over his tongue. He’d expected Mickey to look away, but Mickey held his eyes, a hazy blush across his face that made Ian want to fuck him like no guy he’d ever been with before.

“Name,” Ian murmured around a mouthful of cock, before jerking Mickey forward so hard he took Mickey’s cock from hilt to base and gagged. He pulled back for breath and did it again, all the while twisting his fingers inside of Mickey and thrusting them up, looking for the right spot.

“C-can’t, fuck, oh god, yes, _yes_ ,” Mickey whimpered out, his hands tugging at Ian’s hair as his breath came in faster and faster gasps. Ian added another finger and Mickey moaned loud and sweet, seeming to forget his earlier resolve to try and hold in his sounds. Ian finger fucked him and went to take him into the back of his throat again but this time Mickey jerked his head back so sharp it hurt.

“D-don’t, _fuck_ , hurt, ah, _ah_ , y-yourself,” Mickey growled out, and it took Ian a moment to realize that Mickey meant not to take him so deep because it made him gag. Fuck, he was cute.

“No worries,” Ian said and took Mickey back in his mouth, thrusting his fingers deep. When Mickey’s cock leapt and Mickey moaned, “ _Iannn_ ,” he knew he’d found the right spot. He focused on it as his tongue traced over the head of Mickey’s cock, then he started timing his tongue with his thrusts so that he ran it over the slit in Mickey’s cock with every thrust.

“Ian, god, fuck, yes, _yes_ , wanna come, oh _fuck_ , gunna come, _stop_.”

Mickey’s breathing was erratic now and he was thrusting into Ian’s mouth a little, his fingers twisting so deep into Ian’s hair it hurt, but Ian didn’t care. He slowed down until Mickey’s breathing relaxed a little, then he went faster than ever. Saliva and precum ran down his chin and he knew he must look like a filthy little whore but Mickey’s hazy eyes never left his face and he could tell Mickey liked the look.

“Ian, _stop_ , gotta _fuck_ me, _wait_ , fuck, ah, a-h, Ian, _Ian_!”

On the last word his voice cracked and Ian felt thick, creamy spurts of semen shoot down the back of his throat as Mickey rolled his hips. He kept darting his tongue out over the head of Mickey’s cock and massaging Mickey’s prostate the entire time as Mickey’s cock twitched over and over again, and then both of Mickey’s hands were in his hair, clutching weakly onto his skull before Mickey began sinking to his knees. Ian slid his fingers out and popped off Mickey’s cock, using both hands to ease Mickey to the ground.

“Christ, that was… _Christ_ ,” Mickey muttered weakly as he practically melted into Ian’s waiting arms. Ian wiped his mouth with one hand as he eased Mickey against the wall, then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss onto the top of Mickey’s head before standing up. Mickey leaned forward, reaching up with fumbling hands to undo Ian’s belt, but Ian stopped him.

“No, Mick. I don’t get off with guys who won’t kiss me,” Ian said with a flippant shrug, before turning his back on Mickey’s shocked expression and grabbing his clothes off the floor. He threw them on without looking at Mickey, knowing only by the rustling of clothes that Mickey had stood up.

“What the _fuck_ , Gallagher? You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Mickey said from behind him, and the weakness in his voice made Ian internally flinch before he turned and faced the shorter man. Mickey’s face was still flushed and sort of hazy, but beneath that there was a desperation that Ian recognized; if Mickey didn’t get him off, it wouldn’t be fair trade. It would make them more than just fuck buddies and Mickey wasn’t ready to handle that right now. He needed it to be mutual instead of a gift.

“Sorry,” Ian whispered, but he couldn’t tell Mickey the real reason. “Text me later, okay?” he said, then turned and walked out the door without waiting for an answer.

***

“Ian, you’ve been gone all night and you haven’t answered a single text. We were worried sick about you, what the fuck were you doing?” Fiona asked as soon as Ian walked through the door. Oh yeah. He’d totally forgotten to call Carl and say everything was cool. He managed a tired smile as he answered.

“Partying. It _was_ my birthday.”

Fiona looked like she wanted to say more but Ian trudged past her and up the stairs, ignoring her call of “Hey” and ignoring the way Carl bolted up in his bed and said to Ian “Tell me everything.”

“’M tired, kay?” Ian murmured, dropping his coat onto the floor and throwing himself in bed. It was four in the afternoon but his body thought it was four in the morning.

He flipped over so Carl wouldn’t see the look on his face. He’d wanted to fuck Mickey so badly. So fucking badly. His plan had been to fuck Mickey slow and sweet until Mickey was begging, then he’d get Mick to say he loved him before he fucked hard. Or at least that he wanted him, because Ian thought it would be nice to hear that. But he’d realised something while he was sucking Mickey off and prepping; through all the sweet, hot sounds that Mick made, and through all the ways he’d swivelled his hips and begged for it, Ian hadn’t gotten hard. Not for lack of wanting; below his waist just felt numb. It couldn’t be PTSD either, because he’d jerked off since that time with Rick. Maybe hypothermia? He didn’t know, and he couldn’t bring himself to care as much as he should. So he only closed his eyes and fell asleep.

***

Mickey slammed the door to his house, not bothering to hide his anger; he was sure Terry was gone to deal drugs in a different state right now anyway. The only people in the house at the moment were Svetlana and Mandy, and both women came from their respective rooms to give him twin glares. He stripped off his scarf and threw it on the ground, then took his time removing the rest of his winter clothes while they waited.

“The fuck are you lookin’ at?” Mickey snarled, but wasn’t rewarded with any cowing. Svetlana had stolen his phone and read through all of his messages, so she was completely up to date on him and Ian, and she thought Ian was the sweetest kid ever. She wanted him and Mick to get together so Ian could raise her fucking kid or whatever, because apparently they’d bonded at the hospital. Of course, that didn’t mean she wanted the wedding off; she needed to marry someone to stay in the country and she wanted stability for Yevgeny. But she still wanted Ian here, and she knew Mick was supposed to meet up with him last night. By extension, that meant Mandy knew because her and Svetlana were good friends too.

“You tell Orange Boy about me and baby?” Svetlana asked, her lips pursed in disapproval.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ told him. I mean, I told him I was getting married and shit, didn’t say who to.”

“You did not tell him it was me? You go back and explain yourself! Say we break up as soon as I find other man.”

“It’s more complicated than that, fuck. I can’t get with Ian when Terry’s around. Terry would kill him.”

Svetlana stepped up closer so she and Mickey were almost nose to nose. Then she blinked a couple of times, sniffed, and laughed a little.

“You smell like sex. Not all bad, then?”

Mickey exchanged a glance with Mandy, who had went from sullen at the mention of Terry’s name to hopeful.

“I told him we could be friends who fuck.”

“Mick, that’s the worst thing you could say,” Mandy groaned and Svetlana threw her hands in the air as if she were completely done with him. Mickey looked between them in confusion; he’d never understood women. Maybe taking it up the ass shoulda made him more understanding, but in his case he found it made him less.

“What’s so fuckin’ bad about it?”

Svetlana snapped in front of his face as if trying to wake him up. “You tell him you fuck him and he cares for you, but you live other life. You say you do not care for him. This probably hurts Orange Boy.”

Mickey frowned at that; he hadn’t seen it like that. He’d seen it like they kept the same easy relationship they had now but with fucking. That was pretty much the same thing as dating right, only without the whole ‘I’m a fag who wants to make out and ride ponies with you?’ So what if he wouldn’t kiss Ian? Was it really that big a deal? Kissing was… it was what fucking boyfriends did, and he couldn’t be Ian’s boyfriend if he couldn’t bring the kid home and introduce him the fam. Really, he didn’t want to give the redhead any false expectations about what they could be.

“He still had sex with you?” Mandy asked, and that was the real burn. Mickey spat on the floor, ignoring Svetlana’s dramatic scoff of disgust.

“He blew me,” Mickey muttered. The two women looked at each other before Mandy spoke, sounding seriously pissed.

“Well did you blow him back, douchebag?”

Mickey shook his head bitterly. “He didn’t want me to.”

Svetlana let out a shriek of frustration and walked out, leaving Mickey feeling more terrible. Why _had_ Ian just walked out like that? He still didn’t get the expression on Ian’s face when he’d walked away; rather than sad, he’d seemed almost nervous and definitely surprised. Was it because he was scared of his feelings too or was it something else?

“That’s fucked up, Mick,” Mandy said tiredly. “If you like him, don’t do this to him. Are you using him or do you actually like him?”

“Why does everyone think I don’t fuckin’ like him? I _do_! It’s just complicated.”

“If you love someone, find a goddamn way around it. Be the brother I know and go charging straight ahead. Quit being such a fucking pussy about it.”

“Who said I fucking _love_ him?”

With that, Mandy walked out, her face so upset you’d think she was the one Mickey had hurt, and Mickey threw his hands in the air; why did everything have to be so complicated? Couldn’t you just like someone a lot and screw them while still keeping what you had? He wondered then what things would be like if him and Ian were actually… lovers. He pictured Ian holding his hand, walking along the beach, wearing woolly hats and running around in the park and shit. It was fucking weird. It didn’t fit. Ian… they would… they would watch war shows together and laugh and drink beer and make out sloppily. They would belch and make sex jokes while trading a joint back and forth. They would cook for each other and laugh each other’s asses off when one of them fucked up whatever they were making. Then they’d have kitchen sex. _That_ was more like it.

Is that what it would be like if Ian was his boyfriend? The image in his head wasn’t nearly as scary as he’d thought. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. Nah, it wasn’t bad at all. He let out a long sigh and opened his phone. Fine, if everyone in the universe was going to be such an asshole, he’d call Ian and get this shit sorted.

***

1 DAY LATER—

Ian’s legs felt kind of woozy as he made his way back to the hotel he and Mickey had stayed at. It didn’t make much sense—he’d slept all day today, but he felt like he hadn’t gotten any sleep at all. His good mood was also gone and he felt kind of hollow. The only thing that kept him putting one foot in front of the other was the rambling message he’d gotten from Mickey.

“ _Uh, hey, Ian. I guess you’ve like, got the fucking plague again since you’re not picking up. Why the fuck do you sleep so much? Are you a fucking vampire, like seriously, pick up the fucking phone, Christ what’s wrong with y—uh, shit. Sorry. Just ignore that. I’m gunna be at the hotel tomorrow, same room as last time. We really need to fucking talk. About… fuck, us, I guess. I think you totally fucking misunderstood me, Private Dipshit. I kind of… well, what do you want me to say? That I fucking care about you? I don’t. Fuck you. Don’t make me… Shit. I keep—I FUCKING CARE ABOUT YOU, IAN. FUCK YOU_ , _ASSHOLE_.”

Ian had listened to the message about ten times, and although he hadn’t found much funny in the few hours he’d been up, that had been funny. It was so classically Mickey, and if that was the closest he came to admitting he loved Ian, it was okay. Ian had come to the realisation that he just needed to accept the fact that Mickey and him couldn’t be together the way he wanted, so they may as well fuck. Then Mickey would forget him and get married and Ian would be alone and his family would probably say ‘fuck it’ and then he’d really be alone, so maybe it would be better then if he just kinda faded away, or even died because if you die there’s either an afterlife, which is more realistic than this foggy dream world, or oblivion, which is peaceful and kinda like sleeping and godianwantedsleepsomuch.

His head jerked up as he reached the hotel and he blinked a couple of times, already forgetting what exactly he’d been thinking about. Nothing important. He wondered if it had always been this cold. What room had he been with Mickey in again? He introduced himself to the lady at the front desk and she remembered him; pointed him in the right direction, said Mick was already there.

The elevator ride and trip down the hallway seemed to take much longer than he remembered, and he was thankful when he finally got the door and rapped his knuckles on it. He wondered if he’d have the energy to take all those steps again. The door opened and Mickey looked both ways down the hall, making sure no one was around, before he pulled Ian in, shutting the door behind him.

He turned back and they watched each other for a while, Mickey warily and Ian just tiredly. Finally, Mickey spoke; “You gunna yell at me or some shit?”

Ian blinked owlishly. “Huh?”

“Everyone else is pissed with me. I’m waiting for you to yell or something, tell me what an asshole I’ve been. Can we just get it over with so I can tell you something?”

“I need to sit down,” was all Ian said, and he went and plopped himself on the bed while Mickey frowned in confusion, hesitated, then took a seat beside him.

“I’m sorry, Ian,” Mickey muttered, looking down at the F-U-C-K on his knuckles, tracing it to keep his mind and hands busy.

“S’okay. I’m just feeling off. Isn’t your fault. Sorry if I freaked you out this morning. If you need to get married and leave me and take your wife and move away and come back to beat the shit outta me when you’re feeling low and maybe one day kill me—”

“Woah, woah, woah, hold the fuck up, I think we’re getting a little fucking carried away, Christ Gallagher,” Mickey cut Ian off quickly, giving him a strange look and shaking his head disbelievingly. “I don’t know if I’m even going to get married, so chill the fuck out, Bates. No psycho talk.”

Ian thought about this for a long second, where Mickey’s frown deepened at how slow he was being. “You might not be getting married?” Ian finally asked, looking at Mickey as if hoping that was the right answer to some test question.

“I’m going to talk to Terry when he gets back. Make up some bullshit story and see if I can get out of it somehow. No guarantees, but… I’ll fuckin’ try. Is that okay? I mean, you aren’t fuckin’ like… angry, right?”

Ian wasn’t. He was too tired to feel much of anything, but he felt a numb sort of happiness. “Yeah. Thanks, Mick.”

“Shut the fuck up, I’m doing this so I’m not stuck with some bitch for the rest of my life, not for you.”

“Mm,” Ian said, and his head hit Mickey’s shoulder with a thump, causing Mickey to jump.

“Uh… you fuckin’ okay?” Mickey asked awkwardly. “I mean… that fuckin’ whole thing about the kiss or whatever…”

Ian blew a long breath out then straightened, looking into Mickey’s eyes. Mickey blinked back nervously, wiping his hands on his jeans repeatedly. Ian smiled lazily and leaned forward, kissing Mickey softly. It was brief and sweet, more of a peck than anything, but Mickey didn’t pull away and that was good.

“Um… you want me to… you know, return the favour for yesterday or anything, like, you can just fuckin’ say it or whatever.”

Ian rested his head on Mickey’s shoulder again. “Not tonight. Tired. Wanna watch a movie?”

Mickey seemed surprised at Ian’s reaction but some of the tension seemed to leave him, as if this had gone much better than he’d expected. “Yeah,” he whispered, and he flipped through the channels until he found a good old war documentary with heads getting blown off. They watched it together for a while, crawling back into bed under the covers while Mickey made enthusiastic remarks and laughed and Ian made noncommittal, offhand remarks that sometimes didn’t make sense.

When it was over, Ian was already asleep and Mickey frowned again, reaching out to brush his fingers over Ian’s forehead. No fever. That meant he was alright, didn’t it? But there had definitely been something off about him tonight. He’d been too quiet and he kept going off on tangents about death. Mickey swallowed back a sudden fear at the thought that maybe there was something deeply, deeply wrong with the sleeping ginger. It hadn’t felt like he was trying to be purposefully cold to Mickey, and somehow that made his distance seem all the worse. The fact that he didn’t even seem aware of it.

Mickey wrapped his arms around Ian for the second time in two days, and although this time Ian’s body was a hell of a lot warmer, something about the entire thing made Mickey’s insides a hell of a lot colder.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that everything I touches turns into angst and that this is going to go down pain road. *peers down the road* P sure there's a light down there though. Far, far down there.


	8. Disintegration Complete

Sometimes you have to wake up.

~~Sometimes you don’t.~~

* * *

 It’s too much. All of it. The sheets are rough, like sandpaper against pale skin.

Emotions. Raw. An exposed wire scraped down to the shining metal, electricity making them hot over and over. Too hot. Too much. Tired, tired, tired. Give up. So tired. Stay in bed.

The voices are too loud. Shut up shut up. Go away, you’re hurting my ears. Don’t touch me. My skin is scraped away, you’re running fingernails over nerve endings. Leave. Me. Alone.

  The door opening and shutting. Silence. Someone close the curtains. Please.

The world is moving so slowly. Molasses. Fingers want to clench the sheets. Too weak. Can't.

 What’s wrong with me. What. I don’t know. Am I even real? I’m dreaming. No. Dreams feel more real.

 Help. Please help me. Should I die. Should I. If there’s no point in living, what’s the point in dying. I can’t get up. Death would be so peaceful. Dying would be so much work and I’m. Just. Too. Tired.

 

* * *

**Ian. We called your friend.**

* * *

 

 Go away. Your voice is hurting me. I can’t think straight. Why am I here. I want to go. Home. Home hurts. She’ll be sad. He’ll be sad. I can’t do that to them. Have to get up. Have to. Can’t. Tired.

 

* * *

**Mickey’s coming.**

* * *

 

Can’t do that to Mickey. Can’t. Don’t see me like this. Have to smile. Hurts too much to put on my face. Feel too hollow. Am. I. Already. Dead.

 

* * *

**Talk to us Ian.**

* * *

 

_Lea... ve… me… al…one…_

 

So much effort. Want to sleep. Tears hot. Too hot. Burning face and throat and heart and soul. Sorry. Sorry sorry sorry. So useless. Can’t smile. Can’t stop tears. Chest. Heart attack. Burning. 

 

* * *

**Ian can you get up.**

* * *

 

 … _No_ …

 

Why bother. Not even awake. Veil hiding reality from mind. Or mind from reality. Don’t know. Too tired to know. More tears. Won’t go away. 

 

* * *

**Honey please get out of bed.**

* * *

 

 … _No_.

* * *

  ~~Sometimes you have to wake up.~~

Sometimes you don’t.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of the divide between part one and part two. Part one was Mick and Ian falling for each other and meeting each other. Part two is them dealing with the shit storm that comes with bipolar disease and Mickey being gay in a house full of (presumed) fag bashers. I'm a masochistic piece of trash. Sorry for everything in advance.


End file.
